AND THE SPINSTERS SAID "LET THERE BE TURKEY". AND IT WAS GOOD.

As you might know from reading this here blog, Aunt Chrissy and I are not big fans of turkey. It's not that we object to it per se, but our last few Thanksgiving feasts have been somewhat marred by bad turkey experiences.

Last year we roasted two turkey breasts that were rather, um, how shall I say this?...game-y. They were either very very fresh and from some kind of full-flavored free range big fat bird, or they had been at the bottom of our friendly neighborhood grocer's storage bin for ages.

But not this year, I tell ya. Nope. No way. No how.

The Rich Sisters are happy to report that they feasted on a Honey Baked Boneless Turkey Breast and that it was, quite possibly, the very best turkey they had ever tasted. And the fact that it arrived in a spanky little domed storage container -- fully sliced and ready to go, was even better.

(Aunt Chrissy is convinced that the only reason I liked it so much was because it tasted like ham, but I'm not convinced it's the only reason. I think it tasted so good because all I had to do was pull it out of the Big Gyrl Ice Box and set it on the boo-fey.)

So today finds me back in the throes of the November/December schlump-a-dink with respects to my stitching. I had a mild panic attack yesterday when I realized that I had spent the better part of eleven hours trying to find something to play with up in the studio, but as I read some old posts of mine, I see that this is an annual thing.

I also see that I swore I would just ride it out and not moan about it, so I promise to give that a try for at least the next day or so before I send out the s.o.s.

Our outside Christmas decorations are up and sparkling in the post-autumnal light and both Chez Spinster and Chez Little Spinster look swell. We did my house a week ago and Aunt Chrissy's place on Friday, but some rather nasty rain today prevents me from capturing it all on film. But both look nice. Trust me.

I'm off to the Happy Chair armed with the determination to get through some of the crap I've put on the recording contraption, so wish me luck that something fun to stitch will fall into my lap. Stewey is toasting his little buns in front of the fireplace today, so it looks like I'm on my own as far as supervision is concerned.

Now where did I put those safety scissors?

OH, HOW I LOVE A TREE

This beauty is called The Tree Speaks, and it's by Carriage House Samplings. I fell in love with the sentiment expressed thusly:

I am the beam that holds your house
I am the heat of your hearth on cold winter nights
I am the board of your table
the handle of your hoe
the door of your home
the wood of your cradle
the timber of your boat
My fruits quench your thirst
as you journey on
Come rest in my shade

Isn't that the coolest? According to the chart, the design was inspired by a verse called "Friend of Man, The Tree Speaks" that the designer's father-in-law admired on a plaque in his aunt's home in Pittsburgh.

Guess we all know what I'll be doing today....

Happy Weekend, everybody! Woo Hoo!

SHHHHH, DON'T TELL STEWEY (OR AUNT CHRISSY, FOR THAT MATTER)

I finished Prairie Schooler's Thanksgiving Comes Again late last night and immediately went into the "I have to frame this right this very second" mode. So I called Aunt Chrissy to get her thoughts on the subject, and after a few salty little swear words, she told me to get the ants out of my pants and just wait for the next big framing sale at the Michael's.

But this is me we're talking about.

So I started to creep around the house in search of a frame that would be suitable. I say "creep" because I didn't want the framed pieces that were already hanging on the wall to hear me coming.

First I looked at this wall of The Gallery:
Nope. Nothing there that would work. And besides....Stewey spent about nine hours trying to get all of these pieces lined up just so, and if I so much as moved one of them I'm pretty sure he'd kill me.

(Or pee on something important.)

Then I spied this wall and silently hollered to myself "Eureka!":See that empty space between the two house pictures? Well, well, well...what do we have here? I snatched the piece off the wall and had the back popped off before you could say "compulsive obsessive" and practically chortled with mad laughter.

Here's what it looked like "before":
And here's what it's going to look like "after":
Now please keep in mind that the frame is only perched on top of the finished piece and that there's a whole lotta ironing and straightening and whatnot that will have to go on. But isn't this just super swell?

I have an appointment this afternoon, and then I plan on coming home and hitting the studio to get this one stretched, pinned, laced, and framed before dinner.

Please don't be sad for the piece that is now frameless.....I won't do anything rash or stupid like use it as a birdcage liner or anything. Believe me when I tell you that it does indeed have sentimental value to this particular Spinster Stitcher. I think it was the very first piece that I ever stitched! Yup. When Aunt Chrissy taught me to stitch circa 2003 or so, I got it in my head that I was going to stitch houses (!) and only houses (!) for as long as we both shall live.

I got over THAT pretty quickly, thank goodness. Now, I'm not sure if I could even THINK about stitching a house without some very serious consideration and a cocktail.

Happy Futzingday, everybody! I hope that whatever you're Futzing is exactly what you want it to be!

A VISIT WITH MY AUNT CHRISSY, BY MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP, HIS VERY LITTLE SELF

Last Friday afternoon, my stupid mo-ther decided to try her hand at matzo ball soup. While this wouldn't necessarily be something to write home about, it's what she did AFTER she made the soup that is so worthy of a few little words from yours truly.

She ate the entire pot of it and then called my Aunt Chrissy to tell her how positively delicious it was.

When she hung up the phone, I said "Mo-ther, don't you think that was rather rude? Did you stop for a moment to ponder whether or not my Aunt Chrissy might like to have some of that delicious soup? Wouldn't it have been a nice gesture to pack up a nice little basket full of soup and whatnot and take it over to her house so that she could have a lovely little supper after such a long full hard week of work?"

Apparently I should have kept my thoughts to myself, because before I knew what hit me, we were packing up the whole kitchen and some stitching and we headed over to Aunt Chrissy's for the entire evening.

(It's not that I don't love my Aunt Chrissy, and it's certainly not that I don't love her house....it's just that my visits are somewhat tarnished by the fact that my pesky little cousin Bosco happens to live there also, so this means that I have to be nice to him and feign some type of interest in whatever it is that he wants to play with. I usually hop up into my Aunt Chrissy's lap and then glare at the little bugger from her Happy Chair, but this time he seemed particularly dedicated to irritating the hell out of me, so I curled up and took a nice long nap instead.)

I'm sure you've figured it out by now, but my Aunt Chrissy is the real stitching celebrity in our whacky little family. She has been stitching for more years than we can even remember, and despite my mo-ther's best efforts to convince you that SHE is the cheese, the truth of the matter is that my mo-ther's stitching cannot hold a candle to that of my Aunt Chrissy.

(Might I also point out the fact that my Aunt Chrissy does her stitching quietly and without fanfare, and that she doesn't feel the need to telegraph her every mood, move, thought, or silly shenanigan to the whole entire world every fifteen minutes like SOMEBODY we know?)

The first thing I'd like to show you is the recently framed Halloween Rules that hangs just behind Aunt Chrissy's Happy Chair. This sucker is HUGE! I believe that it measures almost four feet in total height, and I can tell you that it makes quite a fantastic statement when you see it in real life:
The wall above the sofa is a particular favorite of mine because it incorporates stitching from Aunt Chrissy, my stupid mo-ther, and even a piece from my Grandma Sig (*). See the Van Gogh sunflower piece to the right of the floral canvas? That's a needlepoint picture that my Grandma stitched many many years ago. Aunt Chrissy recently restored it and it now hangs next to the piece that my mo-ther stitched called Strawberry Garden. All of the other pieces were stitched by my Aunt Chrissy:
This is another of my Grandma's pieces. She stitched this little girl holding her hat for Aunt Chrissy, and she stitched a little girl reading a book for my mo-ther. Aunt Chrissy recently restored this one also, and although you can't see the individual stitches very well from this picture, believe me when I tell you that they are perfection:
Now we move into Aunt Chrissy's formal living room. In this room are a lot of the furnishings that came from the Rich Sisters family home, and the big needlepoints over the piano are particular favorites. See the huge one in the middle? My Grandma Sig called that her "disaster picture" because she stitched it during the blizzard of 1977 when both my mom and my aunt had chicken pox and the mumps and their neighborhood in Lima, Ohio was snowed in for days and days and days. I suspect that this needlepoint picture is the only thing that kept my grandma from hopping on a sled and running away from home.
Aunt Chrissy's front foyer also showcases some of her lovely things, and she changes out the pillows on that chair according to the seasons.
Finally, I thought I'd show you another needlepoint picture that my Grandma Sig made. This one hangs above Bosco's water and food dishes. Can you imagine having something so lovely to look at while you're chomping your Puppy Chow? (The green border that you see on this one is actually a velvet ribbon.)
My Grandma Sig was a very interesting woman, and someday I'll tell you more about her. The (*) is because my mo-ther tells me that if Grandma knew that a nine pound Jack Russell terrier was calling her Grandma Sig, she'd probably get quite a chuckle out of that. Every time my mo-ther says something about "Stewey and Bosco's Grandma and Grandpa", she looks at their photographs and grins. (Is this what spinsters do when they are 45 and childless and their parents are both deceased?)

For the purposes of this post, though, I'm supposed to point out that all of Grandma's needlepoint was stitched on Penelope canvas using the "sewing method" and that she stitched in columns...she would start a thread at the bottom and then sew straight up the column, and then she would end the thread at the top. Then she'd do that over and over and over again until the entire piece was completed. She used Bucilla wool for her threads, and Mom and Aunt Chrissy can remember sitting on the floor with it coiled around their little hands while Grandma rolled it into a big ball. (I guess it came in big hanks.)

Some silly woman told my mom and Aunt Chrissy that there is no way these pieces could have come out as perfectly as they did using that method, but I can attest to the fact that every single solitary stitch is perfect, and from what Mom tells me, the canvases never warped or got crooked one little bit.

As for my Aunt Chrissy's stitching.....well let's just say that her techniques are all perfection. If you look at the back of something she's stitched (which I'm told you're not supposed to do), the stitches look as perfect as they do on the front. Apparently this has something to do with the fact that Aunt Chrissy is a very careful stitcher and that she has "perfect tension".

(My mo-ther's stitching, on the other hand is one big fat crock pot full of hot mess.)

So there you have it, folks. A little peek into my Aunt Chrissy's world. If she lets me, I'll tell you more about her in the future, and I'll try to sneek my camera over to snap some pics of some of the stuff she's working on now. Suffice it to say though...it's all gorgeous!

I hope that you're having a fabulous Tuesday! I remain your loving and devoted friend.

Stewey

PASS THE TYLENOL

I awoke Saturday morning to the grim realization that the pod of elves I'd hired to restore order around here had apparently gotten lost and was probably sipping Appletinis in a cozy bar someplace.

(Do elves even come in a pod? What do you call a group of elves. A gaggle? A herd?)

(Note to self: must look up the proper word for situations in which more than one elf is required.)

There is absolutely no plausible explanation for the mess that I can create as one single solitary spinster, so I am thoroughly convinced that a large party of frat boys comes into my house every night and has at it while I'm asleep.

(Spinsters and elves and frat boys...oh my!)

Anywhoose....I spent the better part of Saturday cleaning the garage to within an inch of its life, and yesterday got some crazypants idea that I could do the same thing inside.

Today I can't life my arms.

This, of course, is the explanation of why I didn't finish a ton of stitching over the weekend, but I'm thinking that this cold and rainy Monday will be the perfect opportunity to do so. I did manage to get all of the border finished on Friday night while Stewey and I were hanging out with Aunt Chrissy at her place.

(Which, by the way, always looks spectacular and never requires any elves at all.)

So here is the progress thus far on Prairie Schooler's Thanksgiving Comes Again:

I've received a ton of questions about my reactions and opinions regarding the outfits that the Notre Dame football team sported on Saturday evening. While most of the things that I have to say aren't fit for prime time TeeVee, I did want to say this to all of the Maryland fans who think that their outfits are hideous: Hello, dear Maryland fans who think your football outfits are hideous! Do you know what the best part of Saturday's game was? Well, it was the fact the you've finally managed to find an opponent whose outfits were more hideous than yours.

You're welcome.

Finally, can I just say this about the whole "Notre Dame is going to hell in a handbasket" thing? It's not about the helmets. Really. It's not. The helmets are just a simple (and tacky -- let's not forget tacky) representation of the decline of a place that I loved from the time that I was in utero. It's kinda like watching an aging movie star slap on too much bad cologne and a leisure suit and then go out and troll the bars for a twenty-something year old bombshell that has no intention of being seen with a smelly old dinosaur that once was somebody special.

I'll get over my heartbreak eventually, but in the meantime the ring stays off.

Now if we could just do something about that leprechaun tattoo....

SUPERSTITIOUS MUCH?

Am I the only person having a nervous breakdown over 11-11-11?

WELL THAT'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T SEE EVERY DAY

My dog can't come to the blog right now. He's on the back patio conducting a seminar on proper table etiquette for a group of fascinated squirrels. I wasn't sure what was happening at first, but then I caught the following:

STEWEY: Good morning, Gentlemen. I'd like to take a moment of your time to talk about a pressing matter and how it relates to our future co-existence in this little space of ours. You see, my afternoon napping spot is right there inside those windows, and I am subjected to your boorish behavior and constant chattering and munching and whatnot, and I simply cannot abide by it any longer. Your manners are ghastly, gentlemen! Just ghastly!

(With that, he dons his reading glasses, whips out a little clipboard, and starts lecturing).

STEWEY: Napkins are to be placed thusly in one's lap (demonstrating). Then, after all of your fellow dining companions have been served, and only then, may one begin to enjoy their meal. Mouths are to remain closed while chewing, and conversation should remain light and without controversy until the final course is served and the ladies retire to the parlor for tea and the gentlemen to the study for brandy. It isn't that hard, really. You just need to act in a rather civilized fashion and not as though you are accustomed to sniffing your hindparts while dangling from a tree branch. (He wrinkles his nose in derision.)

SQUIRREL #1: What the *(#&$() is THAT?

SQUIRREL #2: It looks like a freakin' dog to me, but what the #*$()#N is it wearing?

SQUIRREL #3: Did the big lady bring more bird food?

SQUIRREL #1: Wait a minute....I think the dog is sayin' something to us.

SQUIRREL #2: Table manners? What the $*#()##&) are table manners? And who the $*#() is Miss Post?

SQUIRREL #3: Move over. I'm trying to eat.

Aunt Chrissy will be here shortly so that we can go vote, and then I assume that I will come home to a miffed little Jack Russell terrier who wants to bitch about the neighbors until I promise that we'll move. It's taken me a while, but I've finally learned that when he gets in one of his "moods", I just need to let it go.

Here's the progress on the Prairie Schooler:
So that, my dear friends is all there is to report from CrazyTowne today. I did manage to try a very very small piece of the Turtle Pie last night after dinner, and I must say...it was simply dee-lish!

And speaking of dee-lish....The Future Mr. Spinster Stitcher, Jeffrey Dean Morgan His Very Self was indeed on the TeeVee last night and I was indeed planted smack dab in front of it making kissy noises at him until it was time for a cold compress and bed. Damn, but that that boy knows how to blow my skirt up.

Woo Hooooooo!

WELL, SLAP MY MOMMA. (NO, SERIOUSLY. SOMEBODY NEEDS TO SLAP MY MOMMA.)

She was left to her own devices. Against all better judgement and against all federal, state, and local authorities, my stupid mo-ther was allowed to spend time in the kitchen yesterday -- concocting God knows what until it was time to haul her off to bed.

It all started with packages of Jello pudding TURTLE flavor. TURTLE flavored pudding! Why, in the name of all that is holy, do we need TURTLE flavored pudding?!

She futzed and grunted and stirred and whipped, and after a few hours I heard her tell my Aunt Chrissy "OMG! You will not BEE-LEEVE what I just made!!!! I just made a TURTLE PUDDING pie with homemade toffee!!"

Apparently, the recipe called for caramel ice cream topping, and since she ate all of that on the ride home from the grocery store last week, she had to make it from scratch. (Or, in this case, from a recipe that she saw on the Ina a few weeks ago.) Butter, brown sugar, cream, and vanilla. Bring to a boil. Let is rest. Vwa-la.

Then she spread that in the bottom of a graham cracker pie crust, topped it with the TURTLE flavored pudding, and then piped whipped cream all over the top of it.

(Gag orders issued by the courts prevent me from describing what happened next, but let's just say that I'm not sure I'm ever going to get the stains out of the front of her old lady sweatshirt.)

Aside from all of those shenanigans, she did manage to hang her Prairie Moon piece in The Gallery. (OK. It's only the hallway that leads from the laundry room, but we need all the help we can get trying to sophisticate up this place, so a "Gallery" it 'tis.)

I don't know if you will be able to see the frame, but it has lovely highlights that match the color of the linen:

There was also a bit of stitching on the Prairie Schooler piece, and I would guess that it was the pie next to the word "doorway" that prompted the whole TURTLE pudding experiment:
Other than that, it was a rather un-eventful weekend. Mom and Aunt Chrissy ran errands on Saturday and came home giggling about going to the Rural King for trash cans and bird food. You would have thought that they had discovered Mars or something the way they were going on about it. From what I know, the Rural King is simply a store where you can buy everything from tractor parts to marshmallows, so I'm not sure why they were surprised at the availability of cheap bird food and trash cans in which to store it.

That's about it for a Monday. I'll let you know how long the TURTLE pudding pie lasts.

With love from your pal,
Stewey

P.S. I've just been informed that TURTLE pudding does not, in fact, taste of actual turtles. So with respects to all of the above....well...nevermind.

OH. DUH. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A BARN.

Did you ever sit in your Happy Chair muttering to yourself "Well, this is a whacky little house with whacky little windows and a whacky little roof" only to discover that you were, in fact, stitching a barn? Such was life here at Chez Spinster last night as I worked on the Prairie Schooler piece.
See that building on the right? It's a barn. You would have thought that the hayloft would have given it away, but this is me we're talking about.

I'm not sure if it's just me, or if the colors of Autumn have been much lovelier this year. I find myself stopping whatever I'm doing during the course of a day (which isn't much, trust me) to take pictures of trees.
This beauty is directly across the street from my front window, and it has been nice to watch it change these last few weeks. ('Scuse the little bald lilac in the foreground, please.)

And I know that I've already mentioned it, but Aunt Chrissy really outdid herself this year with the decorations. This, I think, is my very favorite part of them:
At night, the front porch light is so pretty on the different colors. Sometimes I stand out there in the front yard gazing upon it while you-know-who is examining every single freakin blade of grass.

That would be it for this particular Friday, my dears. We're off to the Michael's to pick up our framing pieces! Woo Hoo! Stay tuned for pics on Monday!

NOT MUCH DOO-IN ON A THURSDAY

I'm not sure if I've ever stitched one of these Prairie Schooler pieces, but I can tell you that I sure am enjoying this one! As I was pondering and pondering yesterday, I realized that I don't have one single solitary piece of stitching for Thanksgiving. So up to the studio I went, and after futzing around with a lovely piece of Weeks Dye Works 30ct. Straw linen, methinks I've got something that will keep me occupied for the next few days.

Your comments about me and my silly little blog are so appreciated! Don't encourage me, though, or I might go off and do something productive. We can't have THAT now, can we?

Happy Thursday!

A VERY BRIEF FUTZINGDAY REPORT FROM MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP, HIS VERY LITTLE SELF

Chello, my very dearest stitchy friends,

I see from your comments that you are somewhat interested in my choice of costume for Halloween. While I'm bemused that you would be interested in such a thing, I'm rather surprised that you would think that the selection was limited to just one ensemble. Haven't you noticed the trend lately in which multiple gowns and/or getups are donned for big celebrations?

(I'm speaking, of course, about the fact that Ms. Kardashian wore no less than four different outfits during the six and half minutes that she was, in fact, married.)

The plan was that I would start the night with my favorite costume....that of a Pan Am flight attendant. I had then hoped to transition into something from the Real Housewives of Hoosierville, followed by a cute little number that I like to call "GaGa meets Midler meets a ladybug", but alas, my plans were foiled before I was able to perch the smart little pillbox on top of my head.

My stupid mo-ther went face first into the bowl of Butterfingers, and within minutes had to be rescued with a vat of diet Coke, a cool compress, and the promise that I would remain at home to attend to the doorbell. I don't know why I was surprised at this little development, especially since she seems to do this every year (and on alternate Thursdays). So rather than sporting my little costumes and parading about the neighborhood, I was left to supervise what can only be described as a case of acute candy intoxication.

I know that the old lady promised that this would (henceforth and so on) be a stitching blog, but I'm afraid that I don't have anything to show you from last night's efforts. I saw the needle poke a canvas work piece a few times, but within minutes, the snoring and drool started and it was all I could do to get her stupid teeth brushed and pajamas on and then tumble her into the big girl sleigh bed. Sheesh. I'm living with a toddler.

Stay tuned, though. My Aunt Chrissy took the bull by the horns yesterday and headed over to the Hobby Lobby to buy out their Christmas decoration aisle. From the looks of it, we might have a proper tree this year, and I couldn't be more excited about it!

Thank you for tuning in. I promise that there will be stitching to share tomorrow. Looks like the old lady just hit the Happy Chair with the remote and a few nice new projects....so stay tuned!

Until then, I remain....

Your loving pal,
Stewey

INTO THE NIGHT FEE NEE

Into The Night
Shepherd's Bush
32ct. Murky Pond
(all of the threads came in the kit)

BOO Y'ALL!

Well, surprise, surprise, surprise. She returns to her STITCHING blog to actually talk about STITCHING. Will wonders never cease?

The borders are now complete on Turning Leaves and it's on to the fun parts of filling in the sections. I think that once I plant myself in the chair and get to it, this will be a lot of fun and will go very quickly:
Stewey reminded me that Trick or Treating Time is just around the corner, and that it might be a good idea to pull something from the ol' stash appropros to all things Halloween. So Into The Night by Shepherd's Bush it 'tis:
(Don't you just love the fact that the sheep is wearing a cape? I mean, come on, if you have to be a sheep, why not accessorize your witch's hat with a jaunty little cape, no?)

I think there's about a day and a half more to go, and then this one will be ready for the framer. If I'm good and don't find too many other things to do today, this one just might be at the top of the pile.

Finally, I will leave you with a pic of Stewey waiting for the fesitivites to begin. He's rather excited about the prospects of examining all of the costumes this year, but I told him that if he so much as THINKS about lifting a leg, there will be h-e-double hockey sticks to pay.
Don't you just love the Fall? Makes me want to send you all bouquets of sharpened pencils....

A LETTER TO MY FRIENDS FROM THE SPINSTER STITCHER (AS DICTATED TO ST. JOSEPH COUNTY SHERIFF JOE GUNSABLAZING)

My very dearest friends both near and far,

As you might know, I have been "recently engaged elsewhere" due to some unfortunate circumstances that were blown completely out of proportion by the local media. For the record, I was NOT imitating the University of Notre Dame Athletic Director when I took that podium and demanded air time. I was simply exercising my right as an American, and, dare I say it, as an alumna of all things Blue and Gold over there on campus, and my arrest and the grounds surrounding it remain a mystery to me. I'm innocent, I tell ya! Innocent!

I think that the following transcript will adequately explain all of the hulla-ballew:

"Thank you for coming to my press conference. Before we begin, I would like to announce that this will be a short statement only and will not be followed by a Q&A. I have a limited amount of time before the authorities break the lock on that door and place me into custody, so listen up.

For the record:

I do not know the first darn thing about the game of football. Professional, college, European (in which case I think we Yanks call it soccer), or otherwise.

I was an original member of the Notre Dame class of 1988 that won the National Championship at the Fiesta Bowl in January of 1989. My diploma says that I graduated in 1989, but that's because my mom died and I took a year off. (So give a girl a break).

Here's what I would like to say:

We had an opportunity here at Notre Dame and we blew it. The world of collegiate athletics changed dramatically, and rather than leading the revolution and controlling what were sure to be unsavory aspects of all of it, we caved and decided to continue talking out of both sides of our mouths.

It's not 1989 anymore. College football has become a multi-billion dollar enterprise that drives a machine of sports marketing, television contracts, game day hype, and imprinted merchandising to levels of hysteria not previously thought of. The athletes are exposed to pressures unimaginable, and we're re-writing the meaning of the word amateur at a staggering pace.

It used to be a privilege to come to Notre Dame. You could poll any member of our football program and ask them "Why Notre Dame?" and the answers invariably went something like "I've loved Notre Dame from the time I was three years old" or "My dad brought me to a game when I was in grade school and I fell in love with the place" or "I wanted to know that when I graduated I would have received an excellent education and that for the rest of my life I could say that I played for the "Irish".

Now, we listen as the color commentator discusses the attributes of a player and lists all of the schools that he considered, and that he didn't even know about Notre Dame until the coaches were able to poach him from elsewhere. Our legends appear on Sports Center and do their best to maintain their love of the place, but after a few minutes, they too concede the fact that the guild is most definitely off the lily.

The opportunity that we had was one of integrity. And character. And principles. We had a chance to tell the world that college football might have changed, but the core of who we were was going to remain true and strong and that we weren't going to lower our standards or change our practices or dance the dance anymore.

Our players would live on campus. They would attend class, go to practice, eat in the dining hall with their fellow classmates, and then go to study hall. They would be gentlemen and scholars and team rules would be followed or their scholarship would be given to somebody else. When we won, we would win as a team. When we lost, we would stand firm, know that we had left everything on the field, congratulate our opponents, and then stand together. We would cut our hair and tuck in our shirts and not show our armpit hair. We would link arms with our brothers and sing the Alma Mater appropriately and with great fervor, and when it came time for interviews we would use words like "honor", "respect", and "heart".

The moment the world told us that nobody would watch, we would point to the hundreds of thousands of subway alums who built this school, and to the thousands of alumni who wanted the pride back and who wanted to feel like they were a part of a family again.

We'd tell all of the donors who threatened to pull their millions "Thank you, but we'll find somebody else who wants their name on a building" and then we'd be happy with the second largest endowment in the country and the fact that we hit a fundraising goal years ahead of schedule and that we raised a billion dollars more that we had hoped for.

If we won, we won, and if we lost, we lost. And if we happened to hit the lottery and actually field a really great team that was able to capture the National Championship once again, then we'd make a movie about it and hope that the poor saps who cried during "Rudy" would love this one too. In short, we'd be happy to be Notre Dame, and when our kids chanted "We are...ND", we'd all know what that meant and how no amount of loud rock and roll music would ever take the place of devoted fans cheering their little hearts out and then raising a mitten clad fist in the air as the Irish took the field, and that the biggest Jumbotron in the world would never -- ever -- capture the feeling of sitting in a football stadium looked over by You-Know-Who His Very Self and His mother a few steps away.

Alas, it seems that we chickened out in the face of the almighty dollar, and we hired a man who decided to single-handedly throw tradition and history into the dustbin while puffing his chest and blaming the players for "not buying in" to his way of thinking. He took it upon himself to pit brother against brother...teammate against teammate....and when we won, he addressed the adoring throngs in a smart shirt and tie and espoused his methodology and brilliance and proclaimed that he was "re-building" a program that was, in fact, the very foundation of the sport. When we lost, though, he appeared in his coaching fatigues, looking put upon, and declared that the mental state of a prized quarterback that HE had just set up to fail "was not something he had to worry about", but rather something that the player (who, by the way, had already been humiliated enough for this lifetime) had to handle.

The list of reasons as to why this particular gentleman is not my cup of tea is long, and I realize now as I stand here that nobody in their right mind actually cares what a portly spinster from Mishawaka has to say about all of this mess, so simply allow me to say that henceforth and furthermore I shall refrain from all things negative with respects to my beloved Notre Dame, and I will, eventually, consider drinking the Kool-Aide once again.

But I'm never going to like this guy and you can't make me."

So with that, my dear friends, I leave the stage of commenting and bitching about stuff I don't understand, and I'll leave the game day analysis to those who are paid big bucks to do so. In the meantime, does anybody know a good lawyer?

COACH STEWART, I PRESUME? (*)

My mom can't come to the blog right now. Aunt Chrissy and I are trying to scrape up enough bail money to spring her out of the pokey. I'm not sure what the formal charges are exactly, but methinks this weekend's mishaps might have something to do with this:

In a normal household, that picture would mean that my mo-ther was upset about the Notre Dame vs. USC game and that she went out and did something completely stupid.

But this is MY mo-ther we're talking about.

I think that the following conversation between Mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy will explain everything nicely, but you should know that it immediately preceded my mo-ther running out of here with her hair on fire screaming something about making national TeeVee by running out onto the field so as to smack the coach in the face with her lace handkerchief and then hollering "Shame, sir! Have you no shame?":

(I haven't seen her since.)

MO-THER: WHAT THE &$#!!* IS THIS $@(#*%#()@!! DOING NOW???!!!

AUNT CHRISSY: Uh-huh. (She mentally tells herself that this is going to be a very long night.)

MO-THER: OK. LET'S FORGET ABOUT THE FACT THAT I SIMPLY CANNOT STAND THIS GUY. AND LET'S FORGET THE FACT THAT HE ALREADY HAS ABOUT A BILLION AND A HALF STRIKES AGAINST HIMSELF IN MY BOOK. AND LET'S ALSO FORGET THE FACT THAT I AM ASHAMED, I TELL YOU, ASHAMED !!!! THAT MY ALMA MATER COULD BE SO ABSOLUTELY FREAKING STUPIDLY DUMB AS TO HIRE THIS (BLEEPITY BLEEPITY BLEEPITY BLEEP) IN THE FIRST FREAKIN PLACE! BUT NOW HE CHANGES THE HELMETS?!!!!!!! THE HELMETS???!!!!!!!

(Aunt Chrissy thinks about trying to get a word in edgewise, but decides to just hang up and watch the game instead.) (My mo-ther doesn't even realize that she's screaming into a phone that is emitting a dial tone.)

(In the interest of not screaming at all of you, my very dear and faithful readers, can we just agree that the following rant was hollered in a very very loud voice and that my mo-ther's fat face was so red and sweaty as she was hollering all of it that I thought about calling the paramedics?)

MO-THER: The Notre Dame football helmets were iconic. As a matter of fact, part of that iconography was the fact that gold powder from the actual Dome was added to the paint every Friday night so that the players would run out onto the field with Our Lady's protection and support right there on their very heads.

(I think she made that last part up, but I'm pretty sure that you can indeed fact-check the powder part.)

MO-THER: To change the helmets is a direct offense against me, my fellow alumni, and all of the fans and family that have loved Notre Dame for years and years. To spit in the face of tradition is at once arrogant and and an egregious violation of the trust that is placed in the coach as a keeper of the history and lifeblood of a program so rich with collegiate athletic lore. And besides all of that....THEY LOOK LIKE THEY'RE WEARING LAST YEAR'S CHRISTMAS BALLS ON THEIR HEADS!!! WHAT'S NEXT? A STRIPPER POLE ON TOP OF THE DOME SO THAT THE BVM CAN TWIRL AROUND IN HER NEW G-STRING???!!!!! NO WONDER THE PLAYERS ARE FALLING DOWN AND ARE TURNING THE BALL OVER MORE THAN A NURSING HOME FULL OF RETIRED BALLERINAS!!!! THE SHINE FROM THEIR FREAKIN HELMETS IS BLINDING THEM AND RENDERING THEM COMPLETELY STUPID!!!!!

(OK. I admit. I've changed some of the words around because a) I can't even remember all of the cuss words that were flying out of the old lady's mouth, and b) you've come here to read about stitching and could probably give two hoots about football helmets. Apparently, though, this is about much more than football helmets, and I suspect that my mom will try to explain it all to you in a later post.) (Provided, of course that Aunt Chrissy and I cough up enough cash to get her out of that orange jumpsuit.)

Suffice it to say, though, that Saturday night was not at all pleasant here in Spinster's Corners, and I would imagine that the watching of anything remotely related to Notre Dame is hereby embargoed.


OK. Enough of that.

The Prairie Moon piece is now getting framed. Mom forgot to take a picture of it before she took off like a bat out of you-know-where, but I'll make sure that she shows y'all what it looks like once it's hung on the wall. (I just hope she didn't screw up the frame selection like she normally does.)

So we're on to a new project. This is Laura J. Perin's Turning Leaves and my Aunt Chrissy did a color conversion for it since Mom didn't have a lot of the called-for colors and we all know how patient she is when waiting for supplies to arrive. (Don't you just love the way Aunt Chrissy knows the absolutely perfect thing to buy for my mom to get her off the roof?) (Now if she could just figure out a way to get that damn megaphone out of her hands, we'd be all set.)

I hope that things in your neck of the woods are a lot....quieter. I'm going to enjoy some lovely Fall colors today and see if I can't absorb a little Vitamin D while I'm at it. I'll keep you posted on the whole bail money thing, but let's just say that if it took another...oh, I don't know...seven or eight days for us to come up with it, would that be so wrong?

Cheerio!

Your beloved pal,
Stewey

(*) As to the title of this post, it relates to Mom's question:

HOW MANY 50% OFF COUPONS FROM THE MICHAELS DO YOU THINK IT TOOK TO BUY ALL OF THE MARTHA STEWART CRAFT GLITTER THAT THIS JACKASS USED TO CHANGE THE COLOR OF THE NOTRE DAME FOOTBALL HELMETS?!!!

OCTOBER BREAK

When I was in college, my very favorite time of the academic year was October Break.

(And yes, in case you were wondering...I really did manage to go to college and then get a diploma and everything.)

(I'm pretty sure that the clerk that was responsible for handling the paperwork had a head cold that day and didn't pay attention to the fact that I am dumber than a bag of doorknobs and never should have been rewarded ANY kind of diploma, but alas, there it is framed on the wall.)

(Additionally, I'm pretty sure that if I don't stop my bitching about Notre Dame fairly soon, somebody from that clerk's office is going to show up on my doorstep and say "Hey, numbnuts. We screwed up in the first place in giving you the damn thing, and you griping about us isn't really telling us that you wanted it to begin with, so hand it over and we'll give it to some poor schmuck who would have given their left arm to attend our fair university.")

But I regress.

October Break was the perfect time to catch up on all of the stuff that you wanted to do to get ready for school (like purchase textbooks), as well as an opportunity to carefully plan and think about what you wanted to do for the holidays (like fly to Phoenix and sit on the couch). The weather was gorgeous...cool and crisp, yet sunny, and you were able to finally break out the big sweaters that covered a multitude of sins.

So I'm going to take a little October Break this week. Instead of purchasing textbooks, I'm going to take a look at all of the stuff that I wrote down on my to do list back in August, and instead of thinking about Phoenix for the holidays, I'm going to head out to the garage to sort through my Christmas decorations.

As for the big sweaters...let's just say that the present day big sweaters are a lot bigger than the past day big sweaters because my multitude of sins grew exponentially. Who knew?

So talk among yourselves, kids and don't do anything fun without me! I'll be back next week, provided I don't get trapped under anything heavy out there in the garage. Woo Hoo!

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE......OCTOBER?

"Thine is the Trick and the Treat"
Prairie Moon
32 ct. "Camofudge" linen with Crescent Colours Blackbird

Life is just one big fat metaphor, isn't it? This morning I read that we normally have at least 18 days of fog here in Hoosierville during the month of October, and I said to myself "October? Why are they talking about October already?" And then I looked outside and realized that I seem to be trapped in a dense fog of my very own.

Phooey.

Thank you for your well wishes for my tiny little brain. Aunt Chrissy has been suffering with similar complaints for much longer, yet you never hear a peep outta' her. Hmmmm. Perhaps there is a finite amount of kvetching that is distributed to each family, and I am responsible for the Rich Sister quota? If so, methinks we're in good shape for a while. (I'm pretty sure these bloody headaches are sinus and/or barometric pressure related, so if I disappear you'll know that a weather front has moved into Indiana. Or, I have a stuffy nose.)

So here we are, knee deep into the autumnal season, and I am still stitching the same piece that I started way back when. No complaints, mind you, but what happened to that spinster who used to have 20 or 30 projects stuffed into the basket? Where did all of my obsessive compulsive stitchy tendencies go? Why am I perfectly content to work on the same project for weeks and weeks at a time without all of the "chicken running around without a head" drama that is my norm?

What happened, I ask you?! What happened?

I'm guessing that the reason why I'm not flitting from thing to thing is that I have finally matured and am now a full-fledged adult stitcher who doesn't need the constant stimuli of eighty billion new things scattered around her in haphazard fashion. I've finally come into my own and am now perfectly happy to enjoy the process of selecting, stitching, and then finishing a project before moving on to the next one. I have grown. I have learned. I have reached a higher level of stitching consciousness.

Yeah, that's it.

The truth of the matter is that I'm too freakin' lazy to get off of my very big fat heiney to go up the stairs to the studio to get "The Basket". I haven't had a day of futzing or pawing or organizing or fretting in weeks! What's up with that? Could it be that my inherent lack of motion has FINALLY paid off and I can now justify never getting out of the Happy Chair again? Holey Schmoley! Finally! The excuse that I've been looking for!

So that's the new theme here in Chez CrazyAss Spinster with an Equally CrazyAss Little Dog. I'm spending 23 1/2 hours a day in an inert fashion NOT because I have the metabolism of a sea barnacle....I'm exercising discipline and stick-to-it-tive-ness with respects to my hobby.

Oh, I feel so much better now.

We're heading into the weekend armed with plans to go to the Snite Museum of Art over at ND to view an Andy Warhol exhibit. Aunt Chrissy has always loved all things Warhol, and since she asked me if we could do this, we're going to make a sissy day of it. If all goes well, we'll see the exhibit and then follow it up with a lovely dinner someplace.

With any luck, I'll be back in the Happy Chair by 8 o'clock.

Have a lovely weekend, my perfectly wonderful stitchy friends! Do something that I wouldn't do and then tell me all about it! Woo Hoo!

BLECH

It's raining and for some reason I've decided to poke myself in the eye with a knitting needle. Repeatedly.

At least that's what it feels like.

When you add this sad little fact to the news that I am failing Oprah's Lifeclass, I'm not sure why the heck I got out of the big girl sleigh bed this morning.

Oh. That's right. I have a nine pound bundle of love dressed up as a shorty Jack Russell terrier who insists on tea and toast at 8am each and every day or there is total h-e-double-hockeysticks to pay.

Damn dog.

Don't cry for me, Argentina. Once my silly brain figures out that it's Fall outside and not a too-ma, all will be well once again. Just pass the Excedrin Migraine and a few frosty dietCokes and I'll be back in the proverbial saddle again.

So what have you been up to?

I WONDER IF SHE MAKES HOUSE CALLS?

I finished the witch mo-teef last night and marveled at her tiny little waist. What do you suppose her secret is? Do you think that once she hops off the broomstick, she heads straight for Pilates? Is it a magic potion? A cream? A hex that she puts on everybody so that they will see her as a tiny little blonde triathlete instead of a zaftig brunette spinster in desperate need of an eyebrow wax?

Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure it doesn't include grilled pierogi and kielbasa chased with a vat of dietCoke and half a rootbeer bundt cake.

Ugh.

Off to the laundry room! If I'm going to be miserable, I might as well do it in comfortable clothes.

Happy Columbus Day/Canadian Thanksgiving/10-10 Holiday all!

GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES AND TOMATO SOUP

I know this will come as a major surprise to all of you, but I can be pretty obsessive about stuff.

(Stop that snickering, please.)

(Oh. And Aunt Chrissy? If you keep rolling your eyes that hard, eventually they'll stick that way, and then where will you be?)

This week has been all about the grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup. And because I'm really trying to reduce my size from that of a small condominium to that of a normally-sized spinster, I have only allowed myself to eat said grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup once so far this month.

(I know it's only the 7th, but I'm pacing myself, K?)

So today I woke up and started thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and nothing else has been accomplished.

(Would it BE so wrong to eat lunch at 7:30 in the morning, I ask you? Would it?)

Tomorrow, just because I can, I'm going to make another root beer bundt cake, and I might even preceed the damn thing with grilled pierogi and kielbasa for good measure.

(Somebody pass the Tums and defibrilator paddles, please.)

So here's the recipes (that I finally fished out of the recipe basket that is just begging to be categorized, re-organized, and finalized this winter). Both of these recipes are from the July/August issue of Food Network Magazine, so please put the little "c' thingie after this in your head so that I won't get sued for copyright violations. Tank you beddy mutch.

GRILLED PIEROGI AND KIELBASA

• 1 pound kielbasa cut into 4 pieces
• 2 tablespoons whole-grain mustard
• 2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
• 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 large white onion
• 1 pound frozen potato and cheddar pierogi (do not thaw)
• Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
• 1/4 cup roughly chopped parsley

1. Preheat a grill to medium. Grill the kielbasa, turning, until marked, 8 to 10 minutes. Transfer to a baking sheet or platter.
2. Meanwhile, whisk the mustard and vinegar in a large bowl. Slowly whisk in 2 tablespoons of the olive oil until smooth.
3. Toss the onion and pierogi with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill, covered, until the pierogi thaw and the onion begins to soften, about 5 minutes. Turn the pierogi and onion and continue to grill, covered, until the pierogi are cooked through and the onion is tender, 4 to 6 more minutes. Transfer to the baking sheet or platter.
4. Slice the kielbasa into pieces and add to the bowl with the mustard dressing. Roughly chop the onion and add to the bowl along with the pierogi and parsley. Season with salt and pepper.

(Please note that I doubled this recipe and then proceeded to eat enough of it to feel the effects for days. Moderation, people. Trust me.)

Now here's the recipe for the root beer bundt (or boondt, if you're the mom in My Big Fat Greek Wedding):

CLAUDIA'S ROOT BEER BUNDT CAKE

• 1 stick unsalted butter, plus more for the pan
• 2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
• 2 1/2 cups root beer
• 1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar
• 1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon salt, plus a pinch
• 3 large eggs, beaten
  
• 2 1/2 cups confectioner's sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Butter and flour a 12-cup bundt pan, tap out the excess flour.
2. Heat 2 cups root beer, the cocoa powder, chocolate, and 1 stick butter in a large saucepan over medium heat until the butter melts. Add the granulated and brown sugars and whick until dissolved. Remove from the heat and let cool.
3. Combine 2 cups flour, the baking soda, allspice, and 1 teaspoon salt in a bowl. Whisk the eggs into the root beer mixture, then gently fold in the dry ingredients (the batter will be slightly lumpy).
4. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until a toothpick inserted into the cake comes out clean, 55 minutes to 1 hour, rotating the pan halfway through. Transfer to a rack. Gently poke the cake all over with a skewer and pour 1/4 cup root beer over the cake; let cool in the pan for 20 minutes, then invert the cake onto a serving plate and let cool completely.
5. Meanwhile, make the glaze. Whisk the remaining 1/4 cup root beer, a pinch of salt, the confectioners' sugar and vanilla in a bowl until smooth. Drizzle over the cake.

Geeze, Louise, if I made a nice little green salad with pecans and cranberries, and opened a lovely little Merlot, this would be a perfect autumnal meal, n'est pai? I could even serve it at the dining room table, amidst Aunt Chrissy's beautiful Fall decorations and perhaps use cloth napkins and the good china!

Alas, I suspect that I'll open a nice little diet Coke instead and will eat this in my underpants while screaming at Air Force to beat the crap out of Notre Dame. (I'm almost back in the fold and will probably revert to cheering for my Irish by the end of the season, but for now I'm still mad at them and reserve the right to wish for them to lose. I know it's not very alumna-ish of me, but until they get their heads out of their heineys over there, I'm rooting for the other guy.) So there.

Happy, happy weekend to all! Do something I wouldn't do and then tell me all about it! Woo Hoo!

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

A conversation overheard moments ago in the friendly confines of Chez Spinster:

MO-THER: Stewey, dear. It's time that we started planning your costume for Halloween.

STEWEY: There will be no planning necessary, Mo-ther. I have already decided upon my costume for this year, as well as started the procurement of necessary materials to make said costume.

MO-THER: Oh, wonderful! What are you going to be? A ghost? A witch? A cowboy? Maybe a comic book super hero? I could even envision you as a ladybug or a pirate, or maybe even a Power Ranger? How about a Ninja Turtle?

(The little dog snorts in disgust and walks out of the room muttering to himself. When he returns, the mo-ther strongly suspects that he has watered the master closet contents.)

MO-THER: How about a hotdog? You know, with a bun on either side and condiments across your back? I think it's more of a dachshund type of thing, but you could probably pull it off with your figure. A fireman? Policeman? Army Ranger? You could do anything in the military category, provided you didn't insist on a gun. I don't like guns. Guns would not be something that I would approve of for your costume, just so you know.

STEWEY: I'm going to be a PanAm flight attendant.

MO-THER: (sound of crickets chirping while she blinks in disbelief, slack jawed)

End scene.

So here's the lousy progress on the Prairie Moon. Sorry about the limited view due to the q-snaps, but it took me about four days to get the damn things on there, so I'm not taking them off now!

Happy Wednesday, everybody!

IF I HAD A HEARING ASSISTANCE DEVICE, I'D TURN IT OFF

Here in Hoosierville, we have a sportscaster named Angelo Decarlo. He's adorable, he really really is, but he has a very distinct speech habit that drives me up a tree. His broadcasts start out well enough...reporting on the day's sporting news, etc. etc., but after about a minute, his voice starts to elevate and he goes into full on Howard Co sell mode with the HE...CAN...GO...ALL...THE....WAY!!!!! And the rest of whatever he's saying is very very loud indeed.

(Aunt Chrissy and I also think it hilarious that when he broadcasts from Notre Dame stadium after a game and he's the only person in the place...he still hollers. Invariably, every single time Angelo comes on the TeeVee, I'll call Aunt Chrissy and say "Why is he screaming at me?" and we'll have a giggle.)

After I tucked Stewey in for his afternoon nap, I crept up to the studio so that I could catch a glimpse of the trial spectacle. (California v. Conrad Murray).

You guessed it.

Screaming. Every single freakin' commentator felt it necessary to scream at me for a full eight seconds before I came to my senses and turned the damn thing off. (Note to Jane Valez Mitchell....PLEASE, for the love of God! switch to decaf! And while you're at it, switch your BFF Nancy Grace to decaf too! And Vinnie Pollitan! All of you! DECAF, people! DECAF!

I'm happy to report that the threads that I ordered arrived in the mailbox yesterday! (I have no idea how Miss Linda from House of Stitches did it, since I'm pretty sure that I ordered them and then four and a half minutes they were delivered, but what do I know about the way things work anyhow)?

So here's the update:

I'll leave you with a snap of Stewey's toy basket. I turned it over so that he could play freely with everything in it, and I have to confess that I've really enjoyed watching his little heiney wiggle as he pounces into the middle of all of those toys and then tosses them all over the living room. (You'd think he was actually a real dog.)

ON THIS EPISODE OF THE REAL SPINSTERS OF COW PATCH COUNTY...

I'm not a studio executive (I just play one on TeeVee), but don't you think they've got it all bass-akwards with the whole Real Housewives thing?

Each episode features women who are at once so pretty and thin and well-accessorized, that you can only IMAGINE what it would be like to be them. A closet the approximate size of an airplane hanger? De rigeur. Personal chefs in the kitchen? Just an ordinary Wednesday. Dogs wearing little outfits and sipping champagne out of seven hundred dollar glasses?

Oh wait. That's me.

Anyway, my point is this: I don't need anything else to convince me that I should occupy space on a remote and distant planet. Let's face it kids, you cannot be a 45-year old spinster with an unfortunate mustache problem and your own zip code and still feel good about yourself after watching a size triple zero prance around in a bikini while bitching that her thighs are fat. (I've eaten baked potatoes that were larger than said size triple zero, so instead of feeling bad that the poor thing has low self esteem issues, I just want to slap the skinny right off of her and feed her a nice big bowl of effew.)

I am proposing that the Bravo folks get with it and feature some poor slob like me who can't find her way out of a wet paper bag with two hands and a flashlight, and who knows the importance of always having a nice meatloaf on hand in the event that Jeffrey Dean Morgan drops by for lunch. The cameras could capture my every move, and audiences would sit with rapt attention while I tackle that unfortunate mustache problem (see above), wipe up dog pee and champagne (also, above), and contemplate whether or not the pile of laundry could adequately be described as a bio hazard.

Can you say...Emmy?

I know there are shows that reveal poor housekeeping, or addiction issues, or even (horror of horrors) weight-loss situations, but wouldn't it be more fun to watch an ordinary every day person bumblecluck her way through a day filled with nothing but dusting and grocery shopping?

Stewey tells me that I've got it all wrong and that people watch these programs to see how the other half lives, but I still think that an hour of beautifully appointed females wearing two thousand dollar stilettos is hard on the 'ole self-acceptance meter. Wouldn't it be more satisfying to see me woop woop it up in the Target aisle over a pair of eighteen dollar slippers?

(They're fabulous, by the way, and I don't intend to take them off until Spring.)

I'll keep you posted on my progress with the pitch meeting, but please feel free to drop a line or two on Andy Cohen's Facebook page. (Does Andy Cohen even HAVE a Facebook page? If I become famous, will I have to have a Facebook page? More importantly, if Stewey becomes famous, will I have to be the one to update HIS Facebook page?)

These are important questions for the ages. Obviously.

I was making pretty good headway on the Prairie Moon piece when two things happened (almost simultaneously, by the way). Number one is that I ran out of thread. (I know, I know, I should have listened to Aunt Chrissy when she told me that there was no way that four skeins would be enough). And number two, the lights went out.

(By the way...just a word of advice to the gal that answered the phone over at Mishawaka Utilities: Remain calm and carry on, dear. There's no reason to holler "There's trees down and lines are on fire!" while pulling on your rubber boots and crash helmet. We'll be fine. Really. We will be. Just turn the lights back on when you get a moment and try not to panic.)

So that explains the measly progress. (If you stay tuned long enough, the dog will eat my homework, the sun will be in my eyes, and the check will be in the mail.) (I promise.)

I'm off to the laundry room! I thought that I was going to settle in to watch the Conrad Murray trial this week, but Stewey confiscated the remote control, glared at me, and said "Casey Anthony" and that was all she wrote. Apparently, I am incapable of remaining detached from celebrity trials.

Have a Happy Wednesday! I'll post the recipe for the root beer boondt tomorrow! (I have to figure out what I did with it.)

JUST KEEPIN' MY CRAZY ON THE INSIDE TODAY...

So here we are on a Monday and all is well. The sun is shining, the gardens have all been cleaned and tidied, and the mailbox has been replaced.

Yup. Replaced. Somebody decided to smash into the damn thing and then just keep on tooling down the street, so a lovely man named Andre was here before I knew it to put me back on the map once again. (God bless that homeowner's association!)

Between the clean and tidy gardens and the new mailbox, my neighbors are left scratching their heads wondering when I decided to get my proverbial act together, I'm sure. It's not that I'm the neighborhood nutball, per se, but I've never been able to keep up with the Joneses with respects to flowers and ponds and lush greenery and whatnot. Add that to a twitchy little dog and a propensity for organizing my recycling, and you've got one very weird little spinster here in The Forest.

Here's a little progress on the Prairie Moon piece. (And yes, in case you were wondering, I did switch out the R.I.P. for a Boo! Don't ask me to explain it, but I've got some crazypants aversion to stitching the letters R.I.P. on stuff.)

(No, I don't know why I am the way I am, so just go with it and chalk it up to an eccentric little quirk.)
(And yes, to answer your second question. This is the only thing I've been working on.) Phooey.

Aunt Chrissy and I went to the Michael's to pick up this beauty:
The wrinkles don't really show up in real life, I promise. I think it has something to do with the glass? I don't normally use glass on my stuff, but the lovely framing expert at the Michael's really insisted that I use it this time since this was on fabric and not heavier linen or canvas. I'm very happy with this and have temporarily hung it in my office, since the blue is throwing me a little bit. I don't have one spec of blue anywhere in my house, so my whole "matchy-matchy" thing has been thrown into overdrive.

Stewey is well and sends his love. He wanted me to share with you a little gift that he received from his Aunt Chrissy. He's been suffering through some issues lately, and she thought this would be the perfect little pick me up. Her name is Penelope the Piggie, and her story reads thusly:

"With her head-strong determination and good fortune, Penelope is the perfect depiction of overcoming impossible odds! Her personal waGer against anyone using the phrase "When pigs fly!" has brought much abundance and prosperity indeed!"
She sits on my stitchy table during the day, but he insists that we carry her into the bedroom and put her on the nightstand each evening so that he can keep a peep on her throughout the night. Damn dog.

So that's the report for a Monday, my dear and fabulous stitchy friends! I hope that you had a splendid weekend and that your week is off to a flying start!

Oh! and P.S.! I am very happy to report that the grilled pierogi with kielbasa and onions, the chicken stew, AND the rootbeer bundt cake all turned out very very well indeed! (A note of caution, though...although delicious, the grilled pierogi are actually little lead pillows that will make you pray for death if you eat more than ten of them.)

PPSSSSTTTTTT...

You know me...I never want to tell you what to do (tee hee!), but when you have a moment and a lovely hot cup 'o joe (or tea), take thee to Miss Margaret's blog to see a) the adventures of Madame Muriel Flat Flossie Grandma, and (more importantly), b) her completed masterpiece.

(Um, Margaret's masterpiece that is, not Muriel's). 

Here's the link:  http://www.margaretmyblog.blogspot.com

It will take your breath away.  I promise.

Stewey and I are hurtling head-long into the weekend.  I'm happy to report that the tiny little itty bones seem to be just what the doctor ordered, and we've gone several days now without one episode of projectile upchucking. (I wish I could say the same for the projectile drape peeing, though).  He will go for his annual physical tomorrow, and I'm sure that Dr. Nieman will say "Oh, Stewey.  You're fine exactly as you are.  Now if we could just get that Mommie of yours sorted out..."  Then I'll hang my head in shame and pay the ga-jillion dollar bill and that will be the end of that.

I've just pulled a few recipes that I'm going to play with over the next few days, and if I don't burn the house down in the process, Aunt Chrissy and Bosco might come over for a bite or two.  (If I do burn the house down in the process, then that would be a shame and I'd probably have to get used to sleeping on Aunt Chrissy's couch.)

(Or in Bosco's apartment.)

What am I going to make, you ask?  Well, on Saturday I'm going to make "Grilled Kielbasa and Pierogi" followed by a lovely root beer boondt cake (with root beer drizzle, don't you know), and on Sunday I'm going to make a vat of chicken stew.

Chicken stew is what I make when I feel myself on the cusp of the blahs (or blues for that matter).  I'm not sure if it's the paprika or the warm and comforting nature of it, but after a few bowls of it (OK, after ten bowls of it), all is right with the world once again.  Methinks it will be just what the doctor ordered.

So that's all we have for you from Chez Spinster today, my very dearest stitchy friends.  I do hope that your corner of the world is a lot more exciting and that whatever you're working is exactly what you want it to be!  Woo Hoo!

JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM

Thine Is The Trick And The Treat

Prairie Moon

32ct. "Camofudge" by Stitches and Spice

Crescent Colors: Blackbird

LET THE FESTIVITIES COMMENCE!

My mom can't come to the blog right now.  She is too busy prancing about the house with a leaf wreath on her head, chanting something about "Fall, Fall, it's here!  Let' the Festival of the Fall Futzing begin! Woo Hoo!".

We awoke to a cool and somewhat rainy morning today, which means that the old lady and my Aunt Chrissy will soon have the official disposing of the leg razors and the stubble will begin to grow.  I'm not sure where it's written exactly, but these two somehow think it acceptable to forego the shaving of the legs as soon as the peddle pushers hit the back rack of the closet.  I, for one, am appalled.

We will also have the ceremonial application of the flannel sheets, the concocting of something warm and hearty in the crock pot, and the burning of whatever latest Yankee Candle is on sale that doesn't smell like over ripe summer fruit.

(All in all it's not a bad festival, but I could do without the leaf wreath and the prancing.)

I hope that you had a perfectly swell weekend.  We were doing just fine right up until early yesterday morning, when I decided to upchuck all over the bed and a rather horrified mo-ther.  She was a real trooper, though, and had those sheets and whatnot in the washing machine before you could say Pepto.  The good news is that she has FINALLY come to her senses and realized that I am, after all, a nine pound dog and you simply cannot put eleven pounds of anything into me without some rather unfortunate results.  My Aunt Chrissy took pity on me and loaded the old lady up with a Ziplock full of tiny itty bitty little bones, which are, afterall, what I should be treated with in the first place.  Damn Mommie.

Enjoy your Monday, my dear and faithful friends!  I remain your true and devoted servant,

Stewey

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A note from Mommie (as in Dearest, don't you know): Before y'all write to me and say "Oh, Spinster Stitcher, you really shouldn't be feeding Stewey so many cookies and treats", may I just point out that I do so in order to get a little peace and quiet around here, and that the Cookie Dance/Stomping of the Feet and Showing of the Bunny Teeth Until I Get My Damn Cookies gets a little old after awhile.  Besides, sixteen years of Catholic school has had a rather unfortunate effect on my ability to handle guilt, and there's no way I'm going to look that little creature in his eyes and then not give in to his every whim. So, before you fret, please know that the tiny itty bitty little bones are indeed appropriate and seem to be working, so as soon as I can find a bra I will be heading over to the PetSmart to stock up.

A CONVERSATION OVERHEARD AT CHEZ SPINSTER LAST NIGHT

STEWEY: Mo-ther, we need to talk about your blog post today.

MO-THER: What about it? (She peers over her stitchy glasses and tries to surreptitiously glance at Jeffrey Dean Morgan on the TeeVee screen).

STEWEY: (Immediately catching on, reaching for the remote, and clicking the off button while Mo-ther sputters in angry disbelief.)  I am very disappointed that you would post a picture of me that implies that I do not know how to wipe my nose.  As everybody knows, a gentleman always carries a proper handkerchief, and had you pointed out the fact that I had a remnant of my evening snack on my face, I would have happily taken care of it. In private, thank you very much.

MO-THER: For cripes' sake, Stewey.  Every time I try to get within two feet of you, you skitter away and act like I'm going to attempt a briss.  As a matter of fact, I think I'm going to start calling you Skittles.  Yeah.  That's it.  Skittles.  And because you're so little, I'm going to call you Little Skittles.
(She chortles madly as she dials the phone.)

MO-THER: Hey, Aunt Chrissy!  Guess what!  I'm going to start calling Little Lord Fauntleroy here Little Skittles!  Isn't that the funniest thing you've ever heard?  Aren't I a comedic genius?!

AUNT CHRISSY:  Put Stewey on the phone.

MO-THER: You guys aren't going to make me take those pills again are you?

AUNT CHRISSY: (tapping her fingernail impatiently) Stewey.  Phone.  Now.

STEWEY:  Hello, Aunt Chrissy?  This is Stewey.

AUNT CHRISSY: Hi, Stewey.  I'll be in the driveway in ten minutes.

STEWEY: OK, Aunt Chrissy.  I'll be ready.  May I bring my overnight valise with me?

AUNT CHRISSY: Whatever blows your smoking jacket up, kid.

*************************************************

Apparently, I'm the only one around here who thinks I'm hilarious.  The dog is not speaking to me, and based upon my attempts to contact her today, it would also appear that Aunt Chrissy has changed her phone number.  If I drive over to her neighborhood today and see a For Sale sign in her front yard, I'm going to be very sad indeed.

Still plugging along on the Prairie Moon, but not enough progress to warrant a fist fight with the camera.  I really am going to try to work on it over the weekend, but if something new should happen to jump into my hands, I wouldn't be too terribly upset about it.

Here's hoping that your weekend is swell!  Do something I wouldn't do!

OK, OK. JUST ONE STITCHY PIC

A very small stitchy status update:

And a picture of You Know Who: 

The purple thing is his "spaceship".  At the moment he is flinging it at me while stridently demanding that I fill it up with tasty treats. (And in case you were wondering and more than a little grossed out, the thing on his nose is actually from last night's CheewEez. He insists on noodging the damn thing around until it gets stuck to his nose, and, because he is who he is, there's no going near him for residue removal purposes.) Damn dog.

P.S.  His little silk smoking jacket is at the cleaners.