And the meat goes on...

"Well, it must be summer. I smell smoke."

And with that, our neighbor made Bubba happier than I ever have just by tossing this one phrase over the fence.

At the time, he (Bubba) had just fired up the smoker and was getting ready to cook up a pork shoulder and some boobs for an intimate Memorial weekend BBQ.

And in typical Bubba fashion, the smoke was billowing and we had begun drinking ceremoniously early on a fine Saturday afternoon (morning). Never let it be said that we are without class.

We then spent the rest of the weekend fucking around with the smoker in one way or another (Is it still smoking? Did you add more wood? I thought you were going to add more wood. Well someone better add more wood! Did you check the meat? I thought you were going to check the meat. Someone better check the meat! And it goes on...) and basically continuing our quest to be sobriety-free throughout our three days off.

However, between refills, I did manage to bake some bread, make some coleslaw, mix some hogwash to go with the BBQ, bake some surprisingly good Peanut Butter Toffee cookies (surprising because they came from the Martha Stewart Food magazine which is widely known to suck ass):

Pick an armload of sweet peas:

Host a puppy party:

And spend plenty 'o time refereeing the dog/cat/food bowl love triangle:

And then Bubba made us a leftover BBQ picnic yesterday, which was the best ever:

And, if you're wondering how one might compile the perfect BBQ sandwich, Bubba was happy to demonstrate:

The ensuing sandwich demolition was not documented due to adult content and language. Try not to think about it.

Now we're all back at work wondering how three days can go by so fast when it's not spent behind a desk trying to remember what a summer's breeze feels like or how many cocktails one can get out of one bottle of Bombay Sapphire.

At least I ran

It seems as though seeing my non-running status in print caused an immediate improvement in my meaty conditions, because I was able to go on a nice (no sarcasm here) long run on Saturday without any stabbing pain in my shin meat.

Miracle!

I managed to trod out six miles with four minutes to spare (granted, there weren't any hills or sand traps to slow me down) and arrive back home just in time to ice my knees and meaty parts and head out on a long drive to see my brother graduate from college.

Another miracle? Who can say.

I will admit, however, that I did the run solo. I am getting to the point where I really should drag the dog with me, but I have a hard time with the training/running balance. Which basically means that I don't have the windpower to, at once, get the dog to "look" at me (thus avoid eyeballing a squirrel) and huff my way along - every...four...steps...

Call me a puss, but this is the state of affairs.

Perhaps this weekend I'll be more patient and able to take her on a run. And perhaps the fucking harness I re-ordered will FINALLY arrive. I don't like resorting to the harness on her because it makes me feel like a cheater who can't train her dog (which could be true), but it makes our runs SO much easier. She just doesn't pull. At all.

Follow the theme...

Miracle!

However, the first one I bought for her was a skosche too tight and rubbed her doggie armpits the wrong way. We can't have that. It's frankly unsightly and makes me feel mean. So, on all that, we'll see.

Meanwhile, another theme running roughshod around here: Escape

As in:

Let me out of this wire mesh:

Let me out of this cage:

And get me off of this pea fence:
Perhaps the EasyWalk people make a harness for excitable vegetable plants.

Such a nice idea, in theory

As soon as we adopted Jada I couldn't wait to take her running with me. I'd had all these fantasies about how cool it would be to do my long runs with a loyal companion happily padding along at my side while I whined and snarfled and chugged my way along.

People would walk by and think "Isn't that cute. I would run if we had a dog that great. I would be in great shape like that, too - and also as beautiful at 6am". Things would be perfect, if not a little delusional.

I've taken Jada running with me a handful of times in the last month. We've had no less than two disastrous situations during each run. Everything from frisky squirrels darting out from between the fence posts to lingering aromas around the dog groomer that caused her to go from Obedient Cheerful Running Partner to Erratic Lunging Droolbeast without more than one half a seconds notice.

The longer the runs, though, the better her behavior. I attribute this, at least initially, to my early morning charisma and fabulously effective training methods. But, of course, it's just because by mile 4 she is tired (as am I) and she has less energy with which to haul my ass down a driveway toward a taunting cat (friggen cats).

Then last week I took her out on a run, and to no fault of hers, I managed an injury that has kept me out of my running shoes since. I think my foot fell crooked onto a manhole cover or something. Either way, I managed to pull a muscle in my shin meat (what is that front muscle called anyway? We just call it shin meat at our house. Like the meat in McDonald's hamburgers. You know.) and spent the whole of last week hobbling around searching for the heating pad and the other bottle of Advil.

This week the lack of running is getting to me, especially since I have officially signed up for the aforementioned half marathon and know that I'll be starting some beefy training later this summer. I'm a little worried that if I don't keep up at least a regular, but relatively low mileage, running schedule that I'll get to July and croak when I try to bang out a fiver.

I'm not even thinking about how hot it'll be when my training starts. Last year it got up to 109 in July, and that's just no time to be trotting around for 7-10 miles at a time. Really, it's no time to be doing anything that involves moving unless you're doing so in the direction of a very big air conditioner or icy cool swimming pool. Two things we don't have.

Anyway, my goal is to get some regular mileage back under my belt starting next week so that I, at least, don't shrivel up and die throwing myself back into a normal training schedule in July.

It'll also give me some time to contemplate my other athletic conundrums such as how much my ass *really* jiggles when I'm running, whether my sports bra is turning orange from having my self-tanner sweated all over it and if I'd look cooler with a headband holding my head whiskers down rather than having them whimsically whipping around my temples.

This is when having the dog along comes in handy. It's easier to sort out a dog/squirrel lovefest than it is to come to terms with ass wobble.

A mix up at the hospital

It would seem that there is some peanut butter in my chocolate. Or chocolate in my peanut butter. Can't decide which, but there are definitely a few sweet peas in my snap peas.

Weird. I didn't order any sweet peas. And I certainly don't remember planting any sweet peas. Was I drunk when I put in the garden this year?

Always a possibility.

Meanwhile, they look pretty cute in there fighting for space with the ever-overachieving peas. Perhaps I'll just take my cue from nature and order some sweet pea seeds to sow with the snap peas next year and pretend like I planned it all by myself.

Like an evil garden genius. Muhuhahaha!

Or, you know, something nicer.


I'm not sure why I'm surprised, but there are other weird things going on in the garden aside from the Rogue Sweet Peas. For instance:

There is a volunteer sunflower (probably from the wildly popular and litter-liscious bird feeder) hanging out next to the veg beds trying to peek over the wall and see what the cool kids are doing.

They might be ignoring him now, but in about a month they're going to be bummed they didn't include them in their reindeer games since he'll probably be as big as the ones from last year.
And no, I don't plan to pull him out or relocate him. That would take grace, careful maneuvering and a host of other skills and/or characteristics that I do not possess.

So, Mr. Soon To Be Cool will have to make it on his own out there in the real world until he's big enough to tower over the cucumbers and make lewd demands.

Sorry, this just got strange.

Anyway, we also have lettuce. It's not weird or unexpected, but I thought it was kinda cute peeking through the mesh cage I've put over it to keep of the BASTARD MUNCHING BIRDS that can't keep their damn beaks off of it.

Obviously the stupid Scarechicken is not doing it's job. You see him back there. Snoozing behind the cosmos. Busy rusting away and only waking up to snare my dewy flesh when I DARE bring a kneecap too close to it's precious tail feathers.

YOU'RE ON BORROWED TIME, MISTER!


See, gardening CAN be weird.

*Relief*

Oh, that Amy - she know what I like...

Dear Donk,

Yes, of course. Of course I finished my May InStitches project. Skidded right in at the eleventh hour to get it done in time for Mother's Day. And don't cha know that Momma Finny loved it long time - almost as much as I did.

See, I made it from this fab blue fabric covered with cutesy cherries that managed to charm me from across the fabric store. And then it continued to woo me throughout the sewing process, even during moments when I was seemingly un-wooable. Like when my index finger had an unfortunate run-in with the escaping steam from the overactive iron. Short and sweet: there were bad words and idle threats. But looking over at the cheerful cherries, I couldn't hold my grudge.


As far as the "Project in Action" part goes, it's a little staged - but thankfully we were of similar minds on the "how to show our project in action while also giving it as a gift". So, here I am pretending like I'm preparing to take to task all six bags of lemons which are beginning (rapidly) to go bad in the fruit basket, when in fact I was actually preparing to carefully wrap up the apron with a book and card for my momma and then return to the kitchen to throw out approx one full bag's worth of lemons.

Did you know they turn to green dust? That is Nasty. And Stinky. And a lot of other Words that have to be Capitalized in order to show their Extremity. EW.

Anyway, the other action shot that was taken immediately before wrapping:


Aside from the fabulous Mother's Day extravaganza that was planned for this weekend, Bubba and I also managed to observe a little publicized festival of ours: The Mac and Cheese Taste-Off.

I guess you could file this with Yoga Taco Night, Cinco Del Taco and Pizza Night (Everybody loves Pizza Night) under "Bizarre Events Involving Junky Food", but in our house, it's a rare and hallowed event.

It's also not at all regulated and there aren't any rules. And, in fact, there is very little "tasting off" going on, since we both think our variety of neon cheese covered macaroni is The Best. So, at most, it involves a little good-humored chiding and poking fun at *how disgusting* the other variety of mac & cheese really is. I mean, come on, POWDERED CHEESE? How gross.

For me, it's Velveeta Shells & Cheese all the way. Gooey neon orange cheese squooze fresh from a silver pouch? Perfection. The fact that a "cheese" product can sit, unrefrigerated, on a grocery store shelf for indefinite periods of time without any degradation of it's edibility is none of my concern. The end product is simply divine. And if a dozen shells happened to get glued together with the aforementioned heavenly cheese goo and speared by my fork all at once - all the better.


So, beyond the charming apron making (and YES I LOVE THIS PATTERN SO MUCH) and mac & cheese eating (Velveeta rules. Kraft drools.), my weekend was fabu. Slap on top the fabulous formal tea that we went to on Mom's day and the shopping that followed and I was an all around happy beast. I think you might be too, when you see what hopped into my bag when I went by a certain store since it's on its way to you raht now.

xo
Finny

What you're supposed to be doing.

I'm trying not to think about the IRS situation, so I'm taking stock of all the things that *are* doing what they're supposed to be doing right now.

Unlike the IRS. Who I'm trying not to think about.

LOSERS.

Ok, the garden...yes...right...

Unlike last season at this time, when I had already begun to replace croaking plants, I am actually seeing some pretty impressive, if not downright alarming growth happening in the veg beds.

Alarming:

These much requested snap peas have done blown past the top of their "pea fence" which we now call a "pea fence" instead of a Pea Fence because it's obviously not built tall enough for Peas, just "peas". Know what I mean? You know.

But, I suppose that since they're doing what they're supposed to be doing, I'm fine with it. If someone would get out to the fence and eat them so they'd quit falling over on the wee cucumber plants, that'd be great, too.

Impressive:

I don't recall having ever eaten a fresh-from-the-garden strawberry in May before, but as you know, that is old news this season and now I'm staring at a whole bunch of them. Well, I was. Until some bastard birds caught wind of the whole scenario and began their assault on my unguarded fruits.

Now it is not only I who has tasted a May strawberry, but also a flock of very lucky birds. Or perhaps one really big one. Who has not yet been struck down by the bird hunting dog. Lucky him.


Also pretending to be impressive is the aforementioned hidden-beneath-the-overgrown-peas cucumber plants who are currently playing an annoying game of bait and switch with me that I do not appreciate. One day, they look like this, all green and frisky and tiny miniatures of their future huge tasty selves. The next day, they are little shriveled used-to-be miniatures that get flicked off the plant while I say bad words.

I'm chalking it up to the lack of pollination since the bees are still flying around our yard in a confused haze wondering what happened to winter. They may not be ready to pollinate the tinnies just yet.

Relief:

Last season I had a minor meltdown when my tomato plants, which I was "growing" from seed, were transferred outside during, what I now refer to as, my Killing Season. As it turns out, I am not so hot when it comes to hardening off tender seedlings and, thus, they all died over an unseasonably warm weekend when I was probably watching the Giants lose instead of watching my plants fry in the yard. Oh the choices.

However! The tomato plants this season are a totally different story. First, I did not grow them from seed, because I do not enjoy torturing myself, and second, they are alive and sort of bursting. They've (at least) quadrupled in size since I put them in the ground and now they're blooming, which leads me to believe that there will be tomatoes. Warm, delicious, summertime tomatoes. The kind that I'll eat right off the plant without even washing them.

OH YES. No washing! And that is why organic gardening is awesome.

Also good:

This is the replacement cantaloupe blooming in the graveyard of it's seedling predecessors who didn't make it to this stage because they were mercilessly gnawed to death by an evil being. I think it was some kind of bug. Stupids.

But now it's blooming and, again, I believe this means that fruit is coming. Which also means that I will soon be using up all those lemons by squirting them all over these cantaloupe (Have you not tried this? Do it now.) and eating them right up. Right out there in the yard. NO WASHING!

This is one of the few specimens to survive the mad bug buffet intact. I started it indoors and then transplanted to the garden once it had enough leaves so that the bugs could chew on it without killing it before it got strong enough to fend for itself. This is the Big Max pumpkin. Legend has it that it will produce 100 lb+ pumpkins.

I say, bring it.

***

So, now you're up to speed on the garden progress which I know comes as a great relief to one and all. And at this very moment, Bubba is in the backyard hauling the Evil Tree Stumps to the truck, so I better get out there and help him.

Well, at least with that one *special* tree stump that fell over on my unguarded chicken shin last weekend and has rendered me a whining bruised mess. Sure, I shouldn't be fucking around with the woodpile in my shorts and flip-flops, but there's a lot of things I *shouldn't* be doing. Like going out to the yard right now, with my ax, to *carefully* transport this *special* stump to the truck with all my tender care.

Someone, dial 9-1- and wait for me to holler?

Great weekends to all!

P.S. The IRS sucks

SIX WEEKS?

Allow me to dust off an old nugget here and say that the IRS is fucked.

Oh, I know, the story has been told. But not by me. So here I am to share with you why I now know this to be true.

Bubba and I, in all our paranoid anxiety-ridden wisdom, dragged our butts to the accountant way back in February to get our scary-ass taxes done. In an effort to rip the band-aid right off and face the numbers together without the added fright of doing so on the eve of April 15th.

So, we handed over our lives in paper form, waited *sweating* for our numbers to come back, cried quietly when they did, but then were actually able to rejoice a little bit because we were getting a refund.

A wha?

Oh yeah people, by some force of magic (aka the Alternative Fuel Tax credit) we were actually going to be getting A REFUND.

I know, I had to look the word up myself. It has been a very long time since I've done anything other than weep into my sleeve and write checks so big that I had to squoosh all the words in at the end of the line.

But there it was. In scary IRS black and white: "Refund Amount" instead of "Amount Owed".

Huh. That *does* happen to people.

Yeah, much like winning the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes *happens* to people when they answer the door in their skivvies with a nude whore wandering listlessly in the darkened foyer.

It *seems* like a good thing, but inevitably something goes awry and you end up having to make some excruciating phone calls and/or post bail.

Much as things have transpired here. Minus the bail part.

The short version is that we haven't gotten our refund yet and I'm ticked.

The long version is that we haven't gotten our refund yet and I'm ticked because it was allegedly mailed on March 30th and, for some reason, never arrived intact in our mailbox. The reason this is the long version is because of the phone call I had to place with the IRS to find out where in THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD our friggen check was. I was inevitably placed on perma-hold just to be told (after 25 Muzak-soaked minutes) that they couldn't track it down for me and I'd have to fill out a form and wait SIX WEEKS for someone to get back to me.

SIX WEEKS.

Six weeks to find out whether the check was forged and cashed by some thief (who I hope has already been hit by a bus) meaning that I will then have to file a whole bunch more paperwork, swear that my signature is my signature and that I am who I am and Bubba is who Bubba is and all that jazz before they'll send me another one. It is likely that this, too, will take six weeks or more.

Best case scenario, the check was actually *lost* and remains uncashed to this day and they'll just cut another one.

The likelihood of this happening is akin to the money just falling from the sky, right now, into my lap.

*waiting*waiting*waiting*

Yep, nothing.

So, stay tuned for the SIX WEEK update, when I will likely be singing the praises of the bank teller who cashed our check even though it was signed in red crayon by Mickey Mouse himself.

Cinco de What Now?

I didn't realize that I'd stopped celebrating Cinco de Mayo until someone asked me last week if I had *big* plans for the weekend.

You know, in that eye-brow raised way where you know they're expecting some kind of impressive and slightly debaucherous (now a word) response. Like how people ask about your trip to Vegas *wink wink*.

I had no idea what they were referring to since I haven't been to Vegas in over a year (sad) and the only plans I had in mind for the weekend were to take Jada to a new park and see Spiderman 3 (suckfest) with Bubba. Nothing lewd and salacious there. Not even with all the butt sniffing going on at the dog park.

Then it dawned on me. They were talking about Cinco de Mayo.

Ooooooooooooh.

I'll tell you this about Cinco de Mayo: Mmm, no.

I might be getting old and boring, but still, no.

Although we did end up at Del Taco yesterday where we enjoyed some Del Scorcho sauce on our quesadillas and absorbed some local culture which happened to be parked/camping next to the drive through.


Yes, that is a slow burning campfire right there on the pavement. Yes, we realize their existence had nothing at all to do with Cinco de Mayo. But it's as close as we got to drunk weirdos and strange cleavage all weekend, and that was the point.

As it happens, Bubba and I don't revel in this holiday, much as we don't revel in most holidays. Mostly because they all seem to involve bad parking, hordes of stinky ill-behaved people operating under the guise of "festive cheer" and expensive low-grade food.

However, there was nowhere to hide from the sirens that carried through the night or the rumbling thunderstorms which passed regularly by our house disguised as iridescent Oldsmobiles. So, in a way, we did experience Cinco de Mayo in one way or another.

And, our weekend *did* involve drinking and merriment, albeit of a different variety. The variety that includes an Australian Syrah instead of overpriced margaritas made with cheap mix and a lot of time in the sunshine of our backyard where the only fights that got broken up were those between Jada and Rocket when someone's nose got too close to someone's hind end.

And who says we're not festive?

Shameless obsession

We just moved into a new building at work. Not all that exciting, I agree. Especially since it involves me packing my stuff into carefully stickered boxes and then showing up in my new spot to find that they've all been lost and I also have no chair.

Glee.

However, the building did hold some merit. Namely, the hottest paper cutters I've ever seen. Seriously. I spent fifteen minutes exploiting all of the features of this paper cutter as though I'd never used on in my life. Which I have.

(Yes, I'm posting photos of a paper cutter.)

Then I ran back to my desk (where I still have no chair) and pinged my friend/co-worker/fellow organizational dork:

Me: I am about to ask you a very dorky question...
Her: go on, my dorky friend
Me: Have you used the new paper cutter? Because it is THE coolest thing I've seen. EVER.
Her: how so?
Me: (I'm breathless at this point) When you raise the arm to cut the paper, there is a laser line (!!!) that shoots down the paper so you can line it up just so. I am going to marry the paper cutter.
Her: SHUT UP! i'm going to go cut something
Me: Do it. But prepare yourself. It is really fabulous. You'll want to hug it. BUT DON'T! It's pointy.


We then spent another 15 minutes ogling the laser line, measurement marks (so you can cut any old piece of paper into 3x5, 4x6 and 8x10-cool!) and paper holding arm while clucking so vociferously you'd think we were planning a wedding or getting really drunk.


I'm harboring secret fantasies about hijacking one from the office and taking it home for a sweet weekend rendezvous with my truckload of untouched paper supplies.

But I won't. Not because I'm afraid of being fired, but because I'm afraid of being "The girl who got fired for stealing the paper cutter." That's just dumb. And who wants that following them around on interviews?

Them: Hi [Insert my real name], tell us why you left [most desirable company]?
Me: Uh...I have an issue with office supplies and my ability to part ways with them when I go home.
*Awkward moment.*

So for now my sad obsession is playing itself out here for you all so that I can hopefully seek commonality with like-minded paper cutting obsessionaires.

Just go ahead and tell me you wouldn't want one of these in your house. Because I will then tell you what a big fat liar you are so that I can feel like less of a psycho.

LASER LINE? Pure genius.

Happy weekend.

InStitches: May

Dear Donk,

I'll have to ask that you to refer to my pants by their technical name, "WIDEST Leg Lounge Pants THAT ARE HUGE". It's not very catchy, I know, but it serves its purpose. Which is to say that they are enormous and if were were to have the InStitches slumber party as you imagined, at least a few of us (the more adventurous ones) could get into these size "mediums" together for the suggested photo shoot.

Yikes.

All that aside, I love the idea of the apron. I will go ahead and assume that there is no reason this pattern should be any different from the last, and will pay special attention to the fabric requirements to make sure that we're not, in fact, making a tent of some kind rather than a normal sized apron for a normal sized human being.

I mean, it may *say* it's a "SHORT" pleated apron, but who knows. I'm a little gun shy I guess.


Theme-wise, I take my cue from the book photo itself (so derivative, I know) and declare this "Project in Action" month. Specifically, you make the apron and then have someone take a photo of you doing something in it. Perhaps cooking. Perhaps playing tennis. It doesn't have to be used for the specific purpose of cooking, but go easy on the nudity, this is not a boudoir apron, folks.

Winner-wise (all things *wise* today), I'm excited to announce April's InStitches winner as Alison of domesticali. Her saucy hot lounge pants set the pool on fire, and well, that deserves a prize. Spicy Lady Alison - please send me your mailing address (and phone #, too please for the UPS man) to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom. I will then ship you a prize befitting your sassiness.

June-wise (see?), I don't know yet. I'll think on it. There is one particular pattern that I've been coveting, so I'll have to see how I'm feeling come June.

Meanwhile, I can't wait to hear about the trip to Moz (so excited for my tribal fabric! sqweeeeee!), Britney is a mess and I will go pay homage to Paper-Source when it opens and let them know you'll be here soon to visit. And when I say "pay homage" you know that means shopping, which also means pressies for my favorite people. (You're my favorite people.)

Have a fabulously safe trip to the dark continent and I hope your many injection sites are soothed adequately by your one-man ice cream social.

xo
Finn

[BOOK CLUB] The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri

I'll just go right out and say it, regardless of the clanging cliche, this was one of those books I was sad to finish. And, despite my desire to avoid getting all dramatic and melancholy over a book, I still want to share the feeling I'm left with having finished it.

Like catching a beautiful fish - The whole experience is at once enjoyable, anxious, frustrating and satisfying. I try to enjoy the journey: casting repeatedly into the current, trying not to get too antsy about adjusting where the fly falls, patient with the fish that rise to the surface but don't bite. And finally with The One who does bite, reeling it in and admiring it briefly under the surface of the water, letting it slip easily off the hook and through my fingers back into the cool ripples of the river.

Ok, so I haven't been out on the river yet this year and I'm ready to reassemble my fly rod and get to casting. Sorry. It has started to seep into other parts of my life...

Back to the book, though.

My favorite thing about this book was the not-so-tied-up-in-a-bow ending that I was anticipating. As the story got closer to the end and Gogol started making more predictable decisions, I started getting this nagging feeling that the author was going to mail it in and pull a "happy ever after" on me. So glad I was wrong.

I'll concede something else here, too - there wasn't too much overt drama here. And I like that. See, sometimes I avoid books/movies/TV shows/people because the stories are too dramatic, too overwrought, too get-me-all-tied-up-in-a-knot and it bugs. I prefer the sensation of a more authentic slice-of-life story that isn't so artificially woven with catastrophic events that by the end of the book you're mostly bald and seeking varieties of medical attention.

Like Suite Francaise, I got the fly-on-the-wall feeling (btw: Why am I using so many hyphenated descriptors? Bubba is going to call me out on this one, fo sho.) of peeking into a life so much different than my own without any prejudging or bias. That is the work of a fine author, in my opinion. I never felt like I was being guided into judging any of the characters in one way or another.

I'm being kind of vague about the specific story line, in the event that you haven't read the book yet, because this is one I'd recommend pretty highly and I don't want to ruin it for you. Plus, Amazon gives a pretty beefy sum of the story and I'm not in the business of writing book reports anymore. At least not in the traditional 5th grade sense. So I'll sum my thoughts up as such: A pleasurable and intriguing story of an Indian man growing up in the US, including all the conflict that comes with integrating with American society.

Your thoughts?

For my next trick, I say we move on to The Stolen Child. I would have chosen Water for Elephants, but I picked it up mid-month and couldn't manage to keep my hands off it and have thus finished it prior to book choosing time. I do, however, recommend it pretty highly - especially if you have ever threatened to run way to the circus. After reading this book though, I'm glad I didn't get farther than the driveway.

So, let's meet back up on, say, 6/15, to chat on The Stolen Child.

It should have been raining

I definitely had The Guilt when I dragged out the sewing machine and three totes of fabric with the full intention of spending the most beautiful day of the year holed up inside working on sewing projects. I don't know why 80+ degree temperatures inspire me to do things like this.

Sure, Rocket could have cared less, since she spends her days languishing half-awake on all the squooshy surfaces in our house anyway, but Jada was definitely looking at me like I'd knocked my melon loose during our morning walk. Sure, that could have been from being half-dragged toward a fleeing squirrel, but she wasn't taking responsibility for my new found sense of Hermititis. Oh no.

Of course, though, I started to feel guilty about keeping the creatures indoors on such a beautiful day, so I let them out into the yard to soak it up while I steadied myself behind the tower of fabric on my dining room table.

This compromise was acceptable to all and Rocket was diligent in her quest to OWN the dog. Which she does, in no uncertain terms.

You'll see here how Rocket has her gaze fixed firmly on Jada. This is common. If Jada moves in any direction that is unpalatable to Her Highness Rocket, she hisses Jada right back into line. We're just glad to have Rocket's bossiness projected on a being other than us. It is tiring to be constantly baring yourself against bloodthirsty Rocket attacks. She is not a nice animal, generally.


As the creatures relaxed happily in the backyard, I rode the sewing machine through five sewing projects until I finally broke another needle - signalling the end of my sewing day. Is it a bad sign that I've broken two needles in as many months? Perhaps now is the time to share with you another one of my nicknames: "The Queen of Forcing It". Yes, Bubba has coined this very flattering nickname and uses it whenever I'm in the throes of making an inanimate object obey my will.

In this case, the object was my sewing machine and my will was "sewing a seam through the base of the zipper pull".

Oops.

Tip: Sewing needles can not penetrate metal zippers. Sew *around* them. Oh. Right.

No worries though. Before this fated incident I managed to complete some long overdue projects:

A fitting dog bed for the pooch from the Amy Butler Floor Cushion pattern

The requested pillowcase from the Surprise Cowboys fabric

A sunglass case from Big Pillow scraps

A fitting prize for the winner of the "What the fuck do I do with all this fabric?!" contest from Amy Butler's Recipe Card Holder pattern

and a soon to be finished Cabo Halter for a certain special friend of mine from the remnant (read: full bolt) of fabric left from my first Cabo Halter endeavour last year.

Yes, it was the invisible zipper on this blessed garment that refused to yield to the force of my sewing machine. Loser. Anyway, I forged ahead to the point of the final hem, but then suddenly lost momentum and decided it would be best if I broke down shop, cleaned up the detritus of the days projects and took the dog for a walk away from the encroaching cat.

Sometimes I do this. Just decide, mid-seam/stitch/brushstroke that I'm done. I don't want to move forward a single moment longer on the project at hand because I know nothing good can come from my continued progress. I will only make a mess/break something/scream bad words/hurt myself or others/ruin something beyond repair.

At moments like these it is best to stop and focus my attentions elsewhere. Like on a G&T, or the dog leash.

After taking Jada for another "We love to chase squirrels by lunging into oncoming traffic and nearly smashing our skulls" walk, I was ready to return to the sewing machine, but decided to wait it out.

I had a G&T waiting, after all.

Oh Nooooooooooo.

Approximately 5 minutes before leaving for the airport, the merits of having a new dog in the family were momentarily overshadowed by the sudden awareness of a certain squishy heaviness clinging to the bottom of my Chacos.

I suppose I should know better than to walk blindly out through the backyard and toward the garden without swapping my Traveling Flip-Flops out for my garden clogs, but I clearly don't. And that is why I was to be found standing barefoot and pissed by the side of the house, hosing off my shoes and swearing into the wind when I should have been packing snacks into my purse and making out with Bubba before leaving for the airport.

Perhaps one day I will learn.

Thankfully (for my sake and the dog's I suppose) my squish-squashy trip out to the garden was not in vain. Oh no! I managed to come across the first ripe strawberry of the season.

?

Oh yes! For some reason, in the midst of our cool, rainy April weather, there was a perfectly ripe, perfectly ready strawberry just ready for the picking.

Well, hot damn.

I had to pluck it and hold it aside for a moment, however, so that I could enjoy it without the whiff of dog doots hovering about. Can't be plugging my nose while mowing the first berry of the season. That would just be retarded.

And the fun thing is that that is not all there is to be enjoyed in this early spring garden. No way - there's snap peas, some lettuce coming in, a couple bunches of promising looking Genovese Basil and a handful of wee plants that haven't somehow succumbed the random onslaught of naughty chewing bugs. Que milagro.

I'd like to think it's because of the careful Companion Gardening that I'm trying my hand at this season, but I'm having a hard time believing that the sparse cosmos and marigolds that I've planted are really having that big of an impact.

To share a little side dish of garden dorkiness with you, I will say that after last season's lackluster crop, I spent a good deal of time (read: an entire afternoon) carefully testing the soil in each vegetable bed so that I knew just how much amendment to add to each to produce the ideal home for two tons of 2007 vegetables.

Normally I would abandon the dorky project at this point and retire to the couch where I would pontificate on all the bushels of fabulous vegetables I would be hauling in, despite the fact that I had not done any *actual* work in the garden that would cause it to yield such results. BUT, this year I actually did something about the alarming deficiencies in the soil so that I'd have a better chance of actually getting some edible produce.

Who's to say if I really did it right, or if there will be any change from last season, since I'm still in the blissful it's-too-early-to-tell stage where the plants are all teensy and I can't be responsible for the lack of produce just yet. Later though, you'll know if I'm full of shit or not.

To balance the odds, I planted some flowers and herbs with my vegs, like the book said, and since the bugs are gone, I'm hoping that will mean that my plants will grow and I won't have to cry into the keyboard like last year.

I know. No one likes a crybaby.

The Santa Fe Effect

I have experienced The Draw of the Southwest and returned to tell about it.

When Donk and I decided that we wanted to take a trip "somewhere new" and then, in unison blurted out "Santa Fe", I probably should have sensed that there was something otherworldly about the place.

But no. I am not that bright.

Instead, I naively watched as the details of our trip fell together like so many magnetic puzzle pieces, as though some master vacation planner were working secretly behind the scenes making sure that everything was just perfect.

And you know I gave US all the credit for the great planning, timing, accommodations, excursions, restaurant choices, etc, but, I think we really had nothing to do with it.

My thought is this: It is possible that Santa Fe, and perhaps the whole of New Mexico, is something of a blissful vacationing vacuum. As though vacation puppet masters glide along unseen, taking your plans and enhancing them - putting the cherries on top. I say this because there were a lot of things about our trip that we just *could not* have planned better if we'd, ahem, tried.

Example:


We spend all the live long day going from gallery to gallery in Santa Fe so that I can stare lewdly at sumptuous pastel landscapes. Then we manage to fall into a paper store (which is one of Donk's FAVORITE things in the whole wide world) which happens to be showcasing a Pastel Kit. I, of course, buy it and spend the entire afternoon pasteling to my heart's content. The next day, we randomly fall into a little courtyard cafe in Albuquerque and find that an artist colony has set up shop and will be pasteling (yes, I know this is not a real term) in the scenic courtyard while we eat our YUM lunches and the cute hippie dude plays acoustic guitar covers of our favorite songs.

Now, imagine a four day period consisting only of scenarios like that. You make no real plans, you check no details and yet everything happens perfectly, incredibly, inconceivably and then somehow gets a cherry on top.

It's charmingly bizarre.

I believe that I said, "What is the DEAL with this place?" approximately one hundred times over the course of our trip.

We literally got to the point where we were never disappointed when what we'd "planned" to do didn't work out as we'd "planned" because we *just knew* that if we kept going, something even better would come along and make our original "plans" look like overdue gum surgery.

Restaurant too expensive? Oh wait, look, there is the exact incarnation of my wildest lunching dreams RIGHT THERE. Oh, and yes, the prices are wicked cheap, we can sit in the sunshine and OH they have exactly what I want to eat at this exact moment.


We decide at the last minute to take a road trip to Taos. Our butler (separate story here) recommends the most fabulous restaurant *right* on our way.

We get to Taos. Donk says, "Taos must be beautiful covered in snow". It begins to snow. It is beautiful.

All the way down to the last moment...

We are sad to part ways at the airport. OH WAIT, our gates are right next to each other.

Uh-huh, the whole weekend was like this. Start to finish. Bad/awkward/inconvenient/seemingly not perfect turns fabulous/ideal/convenient/perfect without us even trying.

Whether it was due to the aforementioned Santa Fe Effect, our inability to accurately judge our surroundings due to overindulgence in margaritas or actual good planning on our part, I can't say.

What I can say, though, is that I am having a secret love affair with all things Santa Fean because that place is, oh how you say, just right.

To be a cowboy

What? You thought all my cowboy-bashing meant I never wanted to be a cowboy?

Ok, so I don't really want to *be* a cowboy. (They ride HORSES! EEEK!) More, I just want to wear their clothes. More specifically, I want to wear the clothes their whimsical desert-swept girlfriends wear. Sound shallow and vapid? It is.

I'm running off with a friend of mine this weekend to the intoxicatingly beautiful southwest for some museum touring, margarita drinking, SHOPPING, poolside lounging, Mexican food eating and pattern swapping. Well, technically, it will be pattern *taking* since she is bringing a few for me, and I am just bringing a big smile - but you know, "pattern taking" makes me sound like a bitch so I change it up from time to time.

While I'm being a bitch, though, I will be living out my Southwest Attire Fantasies to the best of my closet's abilities. Namely flowy skirts that Bubba calls my HippieWear, my old jean jacket, my MooCow purse (I finally got to name one of my own items of clothing. Finally.) and all my turquoise and silver jewelry.

Technically, I don't think flip-flops count as Southwest Attire, but I haven't gotten up the nerve yet to buy/wear/contemplate cowboy boots, so I'm creating a look I like to call Hippie Cowboy. Ok, so I only call it that in my head, but that's because it sounds dorky and I'm afraid people will think I'm a loser.

Frankly, these folks have already coined the style, but all their stuff is so damned expensive that I have to make it up on my own. As derivative and low-brow as that may seem.

I'm hoping that some time in the Land of Enchantment will also give me the much needed encouragement that I'll need to re-approach the Surprise Cowboy fabric. I still need to make the pillowcases and recipe card holders that I've promised and, somehow, that pattern is still burned into my retina and entering my dreams.

Honestly, my sudden longing for all things eyelet, turquoise, denim and flowy might have something to do with the ever-presence of this fabric. Perhaps it is omnipotent. Perhaps *that* is the real surprise? Hmmm...

Anyway, while I'm off soaking up Santa Fe sunshine on my blinding white shoulders and sucking down all the margaritas I can get my hands on, the pooch will be spending some QT with Bubba and giving Rocket a lesson in Fraidy Dog Management.

As it turns out, the pooch (Jada, for those of you wondering her name. Yes, as in Pinkett-Smith. No, not our choosing.) can put on a big Cat-Hating show when she's on a leash, but off-leash she will turn her face to the wall and pretend (and perhaps cross her dog toes) that the cat isn't there hissing herself to death. It's your usual, "Hold me back! I'll tear that cat's head off!" act when we're on a walk, but as soon as we get home, Rocket is the boss - and a mean one at that.

Good thing I can take Jada to work with me. It gives her some recoup time and some time for Rocket to hatch her evening plan.


P.S. I promise this won't become a "Look at my dog!" blog. No. That is just boring.

And, it would take away from the time I spend on my "Look at my garden!", "Look at my fabric!", "Look at this food I made!", "Look at how weird Bubba is!" and "Look at this thing I made!" posts.

Whether you find these boring is none of my concern.

More words I'll stop saying

Specifically, "...and THEN we'll get a dog."

I think Bubba and I have spent the sum of our time together working toward One Thing. One Thing that will fill our hearts and lives with joy. One Thing that will fill a void that both of us have. One Thing that will put an exclamation point on our Happy and just round out the world in an ideal way.

However, that One Thing had to come after a whole bunch of other Things that weren't nearly as fun or lovable or even all that interesting.

Getting stable jobs: boring

Buying a house: Um, NOT fun

Putting in a fence: Not fun, lovable or interesting

Do 100 other projects that *have* to be done before the roof caves in/we starve to death/the yard dies/etc: Eh, not so much fun

But I'll tell you want IS fun, lovable, interesting and ideal: A dog.

Oh yes people our One Thing has been, ever since we got together oh so many (7) years ago, that we wanted a dog with all our combined beings.

Because I'd always had one and because he never had.

Because hardwood floors are mostly useless unless you have the clicking of dog toes on them.

Because you can hardly call it a house without the echoing of big dog slurps coming from the bathroom. (Personally, I find this funny.)

Because having a great neighborhood to walk around in is boring when you walk it by yourself.

So many becauses.

When the fence went up, the last Thing standing between us and Dog finally vanished. And that is when fate stepped in. Just because even Fate was sick of hearing, "...and THEN we'll get a dog."

As it happened, a friend of mine from work started showing up with only one of his dogs (he had two) at the turn of the year. I was obviously curious because this meant that I had one less dog to visit on my tour about the floor from desk to kitchen and therefore was being thrown off kilter.

As it turned out, his other dog had to go with his ex-girlfriend when she moved out a few weeks before and wouldn't be joining us in the office anymore. SAD.

That was when Fate swooped in, clunked our heads together and he asked me, in an ever so nonchalant way, if I (!!!) would want to adopt her since his ex was now moving overseas.

*squeeeeeeeeeeee*

Ahem. So I might have started sweating. A little bit.

Of COURSE I wanted to adopt her. She's a great dog in every way. In the behavior way, in the sweetness way, in the cuteness way, in the used-to-the-office-life way; all the ways.

So, fast forward to today when she is lying at my feet in the office, licking everyone's faces and toes (if they only knew) when they come into the cube, and just fulfilling all the hopes we'd had for Life With Dog.

Fabric Victory

I refuse to be intimidated by little silhouetted cowboys, even if they *are* riding off into a woven sunset on big scary horses (I hate horses).

So, with that in mind, I set out my pattern on Friday in order to prepare myself for utter domination on Saturday.

I decided, after all the commenting, that I owed it to myself and my impulse buying practices, to put the cowboys to use on some fancy Lounge Pants. And once that was said and done, I'd tackle the promised pillowcases and perhaps another one-off project from the list of fab ideas (recipe card holder for BBQ recipes - hello, fabulous!). Granted, I'd set out to eliminate the Cowboy-riffic fabric all in one fell swoop, but after wrestling with the pattern (Do I cut two on the fold or just cut one on the fold and slice it in half?) I was fresh out of the patience it would have required to deal with a single additional shred of Cowboy.

So, at the end of the day I wouldn't say it was necessarily "utter domination" that prevailed, but I did manage to put together a pair of Wide Leg Lounge Pants without shedding any blood.

What? You don't measure success with bloodshed? Huh.

Thankfully I don't measure success by the proper or expected fit of clothing, because if I did, I'd be a mite disappointed right now.

I'll go out on a limb here and say that a "Medium" as designated by the pattern is, in no way, a "Medium". No, it is more like a "Friggen Huge" because I had to cinch that bad boy around my waist as though I was two weeks of dirty laundry and the pants were my laundry bag. Plus, the interfacing sewn in to reinforce the drawstring holes makes the cinching down look a little bizarre when the placket for the buttonholes doesn't flinch despite my enthusiastic yanking. Good thing I have a close relationship with my fabric turner, because I made one sweet drawstring that will need to hold up it's end of the bargain (ie. The Pants).

I have to admit though, I like the fabric.

I know! Imagine my surprise when, after all that shit-talking, I stood before my finished work and said, out loud mind you, "Wow. Those cowboys are a way better trim than that stupid Thai silk with the impossible-to-match color. Huh. Who'd have guessed?"

Meanwhile Bubba was raising his hand behind me and pointing to his own face. Funny guy.

So, with that bit of mannish insight, I will grant The Wise Bubba with his wish of Cowboy Pillowcases. And then, while he sleeps I'll give away his BBQ recipe in a fabulous Cowboy recipe card holder to one lucky person.

Take that Mr. Smarty The-Cowboys-Rock Pants.

And thank you all for your support through this way-too-trying experience. I'll post photos to the Flickr pool and look for y'alls projects in there, too.

Yes, I said y'all.

Fabric REdecision

Thanks to your-all's suggestions/comments/gentle chiding, I'm reconsidering the merits of the Surprise Cowboys.

Plus, thanks to the reality checks from TinkerBlue and Lera, I'm now considering ways that I can use all of this western motif so that I:

A. Don't have it lying around in my stash taunting me for my mindless purchasing habits,

&

B. Am able to bring subtle joy to a man who lets me call popcorn and G&T, "Dinner", without raising an eyebrow

Some ideas on the chopping block:

1. Pillowcases - Check
   
2. Napkins - We only use cloth napkins in our house, and this seems like an easy way to passive aggressively punish the cowboys for their mere existence
   
3. Tote bags - So that when I get the evil eye from the Safeway cashier for bringing my own bags I can yell, "You better giddyup and put my shit in that bag before I lasso yer ass!"
4. Sunglasses case - Request from Bubba
5. Liner for a future purse - Which would require making another purse I don't need
6. Purse organizer - I need a new, ahem, larger one anyway, so why not?
   
7. Wide Leg Lounge Pants - Oh yeah, right. I have a project to complete this month.

What are your bright ideas? I know you must have some. I can't be the only one who's ever impulse purchased ridiculous fabric and then had to find ways to expunge it from the stash to save the shame of explaining it to anyone (Bubba).

How about this - If I use your idea for this, now monumental, task, I'll send you something made from said Surprise Cowboy fabric.

Don't like cowboys?

I know the feeling.

Welcome.

Fabric indecision

Yesterday, after two days of developing Conference Butt, I set out in search of a little retail therapy.

In hindsight, a trip to the fabric store for Wide Leg Lounge Pant materials might have been a misstep.

Normally, I love to stew in all the fabric choices that surround me in the store. I fondle them all, consider most of them briefly, imagine a million one-off projects that I'll never have time to do, etc. Typically I narrow down to a choice few and get in line with the bitties and wait for my turn at the cutting counter before making my final decision. Somehow that clutch moment when the muttering scissor-wielding marm waves me over (or rather sends an exasperated look in my general direction) provides just the right amount of adrenaline and scrutiny so that I can finally decide that the colorful batik is a better choice than the paisley cowboys.

Most of the time.

I knew that I had a difficult task in front of me: Find fabric for the Pants portion of the Wide Leg Lounge Pants to compliment the trim from a random silk skirt that someone gave me half a dozen years ago from Thailand that I've never worn and have secretly been hiding in the closet knowing that "someday I'll want it".

Unfortunately, this lovely silk skirt was woven in a color unknown to mankind. It is unmatchable. Sorta blue. Sorta grey. Sorta lavender. Sorta periwinkle. Sorta fucking annoying. Plus, the embroidered trim pattern is done in gold. Again, wildly unmatchable with normal fabric patterns and a challenge to pair with anything without looking gaudy, bizarre or just plain ugly.

Also, I am unwilling to mail it in by making the pants from plain black or white fabric. Which, frankly, would probably look retarded anyway.

What to do?

Why, spend a good hour squinting one eye while holding up the trim to every conceivable cotton in the store, of course! (Meanwhile, four inch heels get no more comfortable.) In the end, I had two possible choices: a nice open scrolling pattern printed on a varying gold (not metallic -ew) batik background OR some sporadic organic looking paisley-ish pattern on a muted reddish to whitish to brownish gradient background. Note: Some of the paisley-ish squiggles are a near exact color match to the unmatchable blue/grey/purple/periwinkle of the trim.

I hemmed and hawed a good bit, but when token scissor marm called me to the cutting table, I went with the paisley. The color match was undeniable and created a much more calming tone, rather than the TOO MUCH feeling I got from the batik.

Until the bolt was unfurled to reveal that the reddish to whitish to brownish gradient was, in fact, an interpretation of the sky at dusk and below said sky was a rambling scene in silhouette of a cowboy on horseback perhaps riding off into the sunset between mountain ranges and past cacti and other assorted western-type props.

The marm and I both gasped and "Ew"'d in tandem as she unfolded the bolt to reveal the full glory of this annoying hidden gem.

As much as I do not "do" or "enjoy" western themed things, in general, I knew that going back to the drawing board on the fabric choice was not an option. Not at this point with my 4 inch silver peep-toe slingback heels strangling my poor toes, for sure. So, instead of hobbling off empty handed, I had Flo/Clarice/Marge/Annabelle slice me off a four yard section rather than the 2 3/4 required for the pattern in the hopes that I might be able to trim the whimsical cowpoke from the bottom of the fabric by strategically placing the pattern pieces to cover only the Sky at Dusk.

Done! Right?

Now I'm reconsidering. Even though the color match is undeniable (using this term loosely) and the resulting combination *might* not be hideous, I'm just not able to imagine myself ever wearing this monstrosity. Let's be honest, most of my loungewear is either black, denim, white or army green. None of it is red, periwinkle, gold or cowboy.

However, when I was expressing my dismay and indecision to Bubba and casually mentioned the Surprise Cowboys, a look of boyish excitement came over his face that I could not ignore.

The man has a secret desire for cowboy pillowcases.

I know. It's a mite strange.

So, I imagine I'll be back off to the fabric store this weekend in search of new fabric which may or may not match the skirt trim since I'm not at all convinced that I love the trim that much anyway and plus, I don't want my pants turning out like some sort of textile border skirmish.

But first, for some Secret Fantasy Cowboy Pillowcases. Who knew?

New Passover

As a kid, Passover meant sitting for a LOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG time at the kids table with my cousins and siblings trying to get drunk by sneaking sips of the nasty wine as we leafed casually through our sweet Haggadahs so as not to miss our queue to read.

It was a long drawn out affair accompanied by a bizarre combination of bone-shaking hunger and extreme competitiveness. The internal conflict would hit me hardest when the Seder was finally over and I had to choose whether to inhale my soup and pile two tons of charoses on my matzoh OR slink quietly away from the table to find the afikomen for which my Pop-pop would shell out a shiny silver dollar.

Either way, I would end up at the table sucking down as much matzoh ball soup as possible, knowing that there was precious little else on the table that interested me.

Sadly, Passover food (gefilte fish, horseradish, hard boiled eggs, no good dessert) is not nearly as fabulous as Hanukkah food (latkes, chocolate, etc) - an issue that is compounded in it's horribleness since you have to sit through a long ass Seder just to get to it. Typically, it's wholly disappointing.

Until this year, however.

I think Bubba and I *may* have worked out the Perfect Passover Plan (albeit as un-Kosher and sacrilegious as possible.)

*Secret*

We go to In N Out on our way to my parent's house. Yes, we get cheeseburgers. And, yes, we eat the buns.

I know, I'm lucky I haven't been struck down on the 101.

But just as my Jewish onset self-loathing was setting in, we sat down at the table for the Seder (with not even a hint of the shakes) to find that, while our usual, and very *fancy*, Maxwell House Haggadahs were placed atop the family china, my dad began reading from a totally different text altogether.

Text = "The Two Minute Haggadah" - A spoof email forwarded last week to the entire family by my godfather which paints the Passover Seder in a much more humorous light; marking transitions with cooking instructions (Heat the soup now, Plate the brisket now), summing up long-winded stories of wandering Jews in mere sentences (We wander 40 years in the desert, eat manna, get the Torah, wind up in Israel, get a new temple, enjoy several years without being persecuted again) and basically just ties up the gist of Passover in a neat little package.

Thus eliminating gnawing hunger, eye-rolling boredom, endurance of a billion family jokes (or, really, the same three jokes repeated by everyone at the table) and the cringe factor of a dozen off-key Jews singing Dayaynu.

Whaa? What is this? Who *are* these people?

Soup was then served, followed by a lovely green salad, my grandma's brisket, a trough of mashed potatoes and *GASP* real wine.

This was not the Passover Seder I had been dreading. I was not starving (although it wasn't because I'd eaten so much gefilte fish, I assure you), or bored or even uncomfortable from sitting for a long time.

My dad was not all crabby from having to tell us to "Sit still and be pleasant!" throughout the meal. My mom was not all harried from running amok between the kitchen and dining room. The dog hadn't even gotten restless and begun sniffing fingers for matzoh residue.

I'll say it - it was weird.

But the nice kind of weird that means I won't be dreading this particular event with quite as much dedication next year. Hey, I might even forego In N Out if things go well. (Bubba, I'm just kidding. We can still go.)