Scene: A darkened suburban street somewhere in the Midwestern United States. A tiny little dog makes his way down the sidewalk while simultaneously struggling with a large antique valise. He approaches the front door of a home, peers through the sidelight window, and then raps smartly on the door.
AUNT CHRISSY: Stewey! What are you doing here! Do you have any idea what time it is? Where's your mommie?
STEWEY: I've run away from home, Aunt Chrissy. Please fetch me a mug of tea and a blanket so that I can get rid of this terrible chill. I had to walk the entire 7/10th of a mile over here because the old lady hid the car keys again and I couldn't get a cab in this god forsaken corn field to save my life.
BOSCO (Who actually knows he's a dog): bark! bark! bark! bark! bark!
AUNT CHRISSY: Bosco! Calm down and go to your apartment! Stewey and I need to talk.
(Bosco trots away to find his stuffed squirrel, but gets distracted by a commercial for the new movie "Wreck-it Ralph". He stares at the colors and wonders if his Aunt Tubby will take him to see it on one of their Wednesday afternoon dates. He loves his Aunt Tubby. She's very simple, and she doesn't understand most of the big words that his mommy and Stewey use, and she especially doesn't get it when they s-p-e-l-l stuff. She has a tendency to get in trouble too, and she's the only other person who can peeve his mommy as much as he can..)
AUNT CHIRSSY: Now Stewey, tell me what's happened. Did she turn down the thermostat again? Decide to take up vegan non-dairy cooking? Force you to watch The Dog Whisperer? What?
STEWEY: She posted an invitation to the whole world to come live with us, Aunt Chrissy.
AUNT CHRISSY: (stunned silence) .....She, WHAT?
STEWEY: Yes, as you know, Aunt Chrissy, my stupid mo-ther has been fretting herself into fits over all of the devastation from the Storm. And she got it in her head that there were probably millions and millions of people out there who had nowhere to go and no one to take care of them, and that she would take it upon herself to fix it all. So she wrote a blog post and told everybody to come on over to Indiana and that she would make them coffee and give them a bed to sleep in and a roof over their heads and she told some story about your grandpa and how he took care of a little boy in the 1940's.
AUNT CHRISSY: (more stunned silence, combined with confusion)
STEWEY: So now she's shampooing the furniture and fluffing the towels and trying to find a decent shower curtain for the guest bath, all while pondering how long it would take to properly cook a nineteen pound meatloaf.
AUNT CHRISSY: (regaining her wits about her) Oh, for crying out loud (actually, she said oh, for f****'s sakes, but this is a family show) My sister/your mo-ther couldn't find her way out of a wet paper bag with two hands and a flashlight. How, in the name of all that is holy does she think she will actually be of use to anybody? (she sighs heavily) Don't worry, Stewey. People, for the most part, all know that your mo-ther is an idiot, so they'll pat her on the head and tell her she's wonderful and then they'll roll their eyes and tell their friends and neighbors about this crazyass spinster in Indiana who thinks it's perfectly normal to invite the eastern half of the United States of America over for dietCoke. And, since this is YOUR mo-ther we're talking about, as soon as it hits her that eventually people would expect her to come out of the bedroom and carry on a face to face conversation, she'll fall into an agoraphobic heap of neurosis on the floor, and that will be the end of that. You know how she's always talking about how she wants to "get out more" and be a "normal person", but when I tell he that that would involve wearing shoes and a bra and actually talking to people she changes her mind? Well, I'm pretty sure that this is going to be just like that.
STEWEY: You always know how to make me feel better, Aunt Chrissy. Now about that tea....
THE END
************************************************
Thank you for all of your very kind comments about me being swell, but I'm a little embarrassed that you would think so highly of me. Believe me when I tell you that I don't deserve it. I'm just trying to figure out some way to do something, and since I would be worse than useless as a Red Cross volunteer and I don't know how to drive a backhoe, this is what I came up with.
No stitching to report. I got distracted by the TeeVee last night and fell into bed wishing I hadn't eaten ham salad on garlic bagel chips for dinner. Stay tuned, though! I'm expecting the fixin's for Laura J. Perin's "Harvest Moon House" to arrive any day now and can't wait to get started on it! Woo Hoo!
Nov 4, 2012
AND THEN....SHE LOST HER MIND
By the time you finish reading this post, you will be convinced that I have finally gone fully round the bend. But bear with me for a minute, OK?
I'm pretty sure that I'm going to get this story totally wrong, but that's par for the course with me. I remember bits and pieces of family stories and then I embellish and change and enhance them until they're properly epic and make memories that I finally think are worthy of those that have gone before me. So if you're one of my family members reading this, and you see that I've got all of the details completely ass backwards, send me an email and I'll fix it.
The story is simple, really. From what I know, my Grandpa Rich was getting a haircut one Saturday and he overheard a story about a family that had a little boy that needed a place to stay. I think it had something to do with the little boy's health, and that this family (who was in Brooklyn), was trying to figure out how to get the little boy to Arizona. My Grandfather was in the process of moving his own family to Arizona, so he spoke up and said "Have the little boy come with us, and I'll look after him for his family." And so they did, and the little boy lived with Grandpa and Grandma and Dad and Aunt Lou, and the two families grew close and stayed in contact over the years, even after everyone had grown up and had families of their own.
I was in my 30's when I finally got to met "the little boy", and as I was asking him about how he was related to Dad -- thinking that he must have been a cousin or a long lost relative from Italy -- he told me that they were all complete strangers, but somehow my grandfather thought that when somebody needed something and you had that something to give, you just offered it and that was that.
I have a house. It's not a very big house, and I'm pretty sure that most people would think that it's a house in need of a lot of...something, but nonetheless I have a house. And it has two bedrooms and two bathrooms and a roof and hot water and a warm and cozy fireplace, and a few comfy chairs. There are sheets and towels and pots and pans and sweaters and shoes and a whole lot of crap upstairs in the studio to keep a small army of craft obsessed villagers happy for a lifetime. There are books and a TeeVee (or two) and an ornery little dog who promises to pick up all of his toys in the event that the "toys, toys, everywhere" look drives you as nuts as it does me.
If you've lost your house or your stuff or are about ready to lose your mind with the idea of having to put it all back together again and you need a place to catch your breath, you've got it. Aunt Chrissy and I know that you'd probably rather be there with your friends and your families and that you'd probably want to be there to start the recovery process, but if not and you just need a place to have a hot cup of coffee and a few days to get your wits about you, then please, let us know and we will be happy to help you in any way we can.
There. I did it. It's been on my mind for almost a week now, and I finally figured that I had nothing to lose by telling you that in the whole scheme of things, I know it's not much, but it's what I know how to do. My email address is spinsterstitcher@aol.com. Please give it to anybody who might need it.
Take care,
Coni
Nov 1, 2012
HALLOWEEN HANGOVER
I see that Stewey has filled you in on my "situation" over here. What can I say? I'm a weeper AND a fretter. And when you combine those two things with 24-hour news coverage of Armageddon, you can bet that a migraine and an upset stomach aren't far behind.
(Yes. I will confess it. I cried so hard and got myself so worked up that I upchucked my lunch.)
(OK. Maybe it wasn't the news coverage so much as it was the eighteen pounds of Halloween candy that I had to eat all by myself, since I didn't have one single Trick or Treater, despite the fact that I've lived here for 10 years and have never had any Trick or Treaters ever, not one, not ever.)
(But I still buy enough Halloween candy to sink a barge.)
(Stewey, despite his own recent episodes of upchcuk, was not at all amused.)
I've had a lot of yous asking me about my stint in New Jersey. I moved there in May of 1993 and initially settled in Smithville. Why Smithville, you ask? Well, it's because it looked like Indiana to me and I was far enough away from the big city that I didn't feel too out of place. That was, of course, until I walked into the bagel place on the second day I was there and stood in line and then when it was my turn at the counter I said "Oh, hello, kind sir! I'm from Indiana and I've come for a New Jersey bagel!" and before I could get any more hayseeds out of my mouth, the burly guy hollered "Lady, whadda ya want...I got a lot of hungry people here!" and I squeaked out my order and then ate it in the car with big fat sweaty tears falling on the steering wheel.
What can I say? You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the girl.
(For the record, the gentlemen in the above referenced story turned out to be quite a lovely guy, actually, and when I returned on a less busy day he asked me all about myself and my family and what it was like to have graduated from Notre Dame.)
(He also taught me how to properly order breakfast and coffee without giving the world my life story.)
I left Smithville and moved to a tiny itty bitty little studio apartment on the beach in Margate. I didn't have an ocean view, but I did take my coffee cup outside onto the pool deck every morning to wave at my friend Dr. Dan, who was on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Mediterranean. The neighbors thought I was nuts, but the building had a doorman, and that made me feel like I was really swell and sophisticated.
After a little while in the tiny little itty bitty studio apartment, my dad convinced me that I wasn't getting any younger, and as far as he knew I wasn't going to be getting married any time soon, so it was time to be a big girl and buy a place of my own. So I did. I stayed in Margate, but moved about 10 blocks away to a wonderful condo community that consisted of about 257 summer weekend residents...and me. They weren't quite sure what to make of the spinster that tried to grow geraniums on her balcony or who introduced herself as Virginia Woolf since she finally had a Room of One's Own, but they were nice enough to let me be me and that was all that mattered.
Someday I'll tell you more about my life and times on the East Coast, but for now, suffice it to say that I am hoping and praying that all will be well there soon and that life can get back to normal as quickly as possible.
I played with this last night:
I'm afraid that I must blame my lack of any measurable progress on my beloved Jeffrey Dean Morgan. After I watched Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin, I stumbled across a really creepy psycho-sexual thriller in which my boyfriend Jeffrey Dean Morgan plays a really creepy psycho-sexual landlord.
For the record, I like my boyfriend Jeffrey Dean Morgan to play warm and lovely Irish musicians or hot and studly New York firemen because it's much easier to watch him do things on screen without having to peek in between two fingers of my hand covering my face.
So that's the post-Halloween report from Chez Spinster, folks. A whole lotta' nothin' goin' on, but that's just how we like it in these here parts! (To borrow a phrase from The Bloggess....somewhere an English teacher just dropped dead after that last sentence).
I hope that y'all are warm and safe and dry. I'm headed up to the studio to see what's next on the stitchy agenda!
Woo Hoo!
(Yes. I will confess it. I cried so hard and got myself so worked up that I upchucked my lunch.)
(OK. Maybe it wasn't the news coverage so much as it was the eighteen pounds of Halloween candy that I had to eat all by myself, since I didn't have one single Trick or Treater, despite the fact that I've lived here for 10 years and have never had any Trick or Treaters ever, not one, not ever.)
(But I still buy enough Halloween candy to sink a barge.)
(Stewey, despite his own recent episodes of upchcuk, was not at all amused.)
I've had a lot of yous asking me about my stint in New Jersey. I moved there in May of 1993 and initially settled in Smithville. Why Smithville, you ask? Well, it's because it looked like Indiana to me and I was far enough away from the big city that I didn't feel too out of place. That was, of course, until I walked into the bagel place on the second day I was there and stood in line and then when it was my turn at the counter I said "Oh, hello, kind sir! I'm from Indiana and I've come for a New Jersey bagel!" and before I could get any more hayseeds out of my mouth, the burly guy hollered "Lady, whadda ya want...I got a lot of hungry people here!" and I squeaked out my order and then ate it in the car with big fat sweaty tears falling on the steering wheel.
What can I say? You can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can't take the Midwest out of the girl.
(For the record, the gentlemen in the above referenced story turned out to be quite a lovely guy, actually, and when I returned on a less busy day he asked me all about myself and my family and what it was like to have graduated from Notre Dame.)
(He also taught me how to properly order breakfast and coffee without giving the world my life story.)
I left Smithville and moved to a tiny itty bitty little studio apartment on the beach in Margate. I didn't have an ocean view, but I did take my coffee cup outside onto the pool deck every morning to wave at my friend Dr. Dan, who was on an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Mediterranean. The neighbors thought I was nuts, but the building had a doorman, and that made me feel like I was really swell and sophisticated.
After a little while in the tiny little itty bitty studio apartment, my dad convinced me that I wasn't getting any younger, and as far as he knew I wasn't going to be getting married any time soon, so it was time to be a big girl and buy a place of my own. So I did. I stayed in Margate, but moved about 10 blocks away to a wonderful condo community that consisted of about 257 summer weekend residents...and me. They weren't quite sure what to make of the spinster that tried to grow geraniums on her balcony or who introduced herself as Virginia Woolf since she finally had a Room of One's Own, but they were nice enough to let me be me and that was all that mattered.
Someday I'll tell you more about my life and times on the East Coast, but for now, suffice it to say that I am hoping and praying that all will be well there soon and that life can get back to normal as quickly as possible.
I played with this last night:
For the record, I like my boyfriend Jeffrey Dean Morgan to play warm and lovely Irish musicians or hot and studly New York firemen because it's much easier to watch him do things on screen without having to peek in between two fingers of my hand covering my face.
So that's the post-Halloween report from Chez Spinster, folks. A whole lotta' nothin' goin' on, but that's just how we like it in these here parts! (To borrow a phrase from The Bloggess....somewhere an English teacher just dropped dead after that last sentence).
I hope that y'all are warm and safe and dry. I'm headed up to the studio to see what's next on the stitchy agenda!
Woo Hoo!
Oct 31, 2012
GO 'WAY, SANDY
My mom can't come to the blog right now. I've medicated her heavily and sent her off to the big girl sleigh bed with instructions to pick up a book and get away from the TeeVee. She has been glued to the storm coverage 24/7, and her weepy "Oh, my poor New Jersey" hysterics are getting a little hard to take. You would think that she was born and raised there the way she's carrying on, but if she doesn't knock it off pretty soon, I'm going to point out that she thought that John Cougar Mellancamp and Bruce Springsteen were actually the same person until she was 34 years old. Sheesh.
The scenes are indeed devastating, and I am thinking of all of you that were in the storm's path. Whether you're dealing with wind, water, ice, snow, cold, or powerlessness....please know that we are continuing to pray for your speedy recovery and safety.
We're hurtling toward the weekend like a herd of turtles around here, so I promise to provide you with stitchy updates as soon as I have them. Mo-ther has been playing with a fun little Halloween piece from the ANG stitchy guild, but whether or not any measurable progress is made has yet to be determined.
Take care, my dear friends. Be safe, and tell us all about it when you can. We'll be here.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
The scenes are indeed devastating, and I am thinking of all of you that were in the storm's path. Whether you're dealing with wind, water, ice, snow, cold, or powerlessness....please know that we are continuing to pray for your speedy recovery and safety.
We're hurtling toward the weekend like a herd of turtles around here, so I promise to provide you with stitchy updates as soon as I have them. Mo-ther has been playing with a fun little Halloween piece from the ANG stitchy guild, but whether or not any measurable progress is made has yet to be determined.
Take care, my dear friends. Be safe, and tell us all about it when you can. We'll be here.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
Oct 29, 2012
TURNING LEAVES FEE NEE (WELL, ALMOST, ANYWAY)
It's all over but the beading! I had so much fun stitching this that I was sorry to see it end. Do you ever do that?...get to the end of a fantastic book or the last few stitches of a wonderful project and wish they would last just a wee bit longer? Well, I certainly did that with this one. Loved. Loved. Loved. It.
I'll have to finish the beading up in the studio, since whenever I sit in the Happy Chair to bead I end up dropping enough of them that Stewey gets himself into mischief. The last time I beaded something in the Happy Chair, I awoke to see that he had corn-rowed his hair and then attached lovely little gold seed beads to all of the ends. I suspect that he did this to teach me a lesson -- tiny little beads, an overstuffed chair with an ample heiney in it, and a precocious little dog do not mix. At all.
Speaking of Stewey, we've determined that he is the worst alarm clock ever. There we were, snoring away in the big girl sleigh bed this morning, when he decided to lurch out from under the covers and upchuck all over the freshly laundered sheets. So Mommie Dearest here had to leap out of bed, strip it bare, start washing things at the crack of dawn, and then get his tea and dry toast ready before she had her wits about her. All I can say is that it made for an interesting Monday morning. Oh well, at least I've been productive....all of the newspapers read, dishwasher emptied, coffee slurped, and towels a-folded and it's not even 10 o'clock yet. Woo Hoo!
Aunt Chrissy gets the Spinster Weekend of Bliss Award, since she put her shoes and socks on and came over to empty the back patio of all of its contents. I wanted to delay it until the snow started flying, but now that I see the weather report, I realize that when Aunt Chrissy tells me to do something I should just do it already and shut my trap. We're going to get the back-side remnants of Sandy in the form of high winds, so the thought of not having to chase my patio umbrella down the block is reward for a little sweating and grunting.
Speaking of the you-know-what, I hope that all of you in the path of it are warm and safe and dry and that you and yours will be OK. We're sending all of our hopeful thoughts your way!
Turning Leaves
Laura J. Perin Designs
18ct. mono canvas
#5 perle cottom, Watercolours, ribbon floss, and Kreinik #8 braid
I'll have to finish the beading up in the studio, since whenever I sit in the Happy Chair to bead I end up dropping enough of them that Stewey gets himself into mischief. The last time I beaded something in the Happy Chair, I awoke to see that he had corn-rowed his hair and then attached lovely little gold seed beads to all of the ends. I suspect that he did this to teach me a lesson -- tiny little beads, an overstuffed chair with an ample heiney in it, and a precocious little dog do not mix. At all.
Speaking of Stewey, we've determined that he is the worst alarm clock ever. There we were, snoring away in the big girl sleigh bed this morning, when he decided to lurch out from under the covers and upchuck all over the freshly laundered sheets. So Mommie Dearest here had to leap out of bed, strip it bare, start washing things at the crack of dawn, and then get his tea and dry toast ready before she had her wits about her. All I can say is that it made for an interesting Monday morning. Oh well, at least I've been productive....all of the newspapers read, dishwasher emptied, coffee slurped, and towels a-folded and it's not even 10 o'clock yet. Woo Hoo!
"Mommie, just because I ASK you for cookies every fine and a half minutes doesn't mean you have to GIVE me cookies every five and a half minutes. If you're feeling guilty about not being a better mo-ther, try taking me outside to play Pumpkin instead!"
Aunt Chrissy gets the Spinster Weekend of Bliss Award, since she put her shoes and socks on and came over to empty the back patio of all of its contents. I wanted to delay it until the snow started flying, but now that I see the weather report, I realize that when Aunt Chrissy tells me to do something I should just do it already and shut my trap. We're going to get the back-side remnants of Sandy in the form of high winds, so the thought of not having to chase my patio umbrella down the block is reward for a little sweating and grunting.
Speaking of the you-know-what, I hope that all of you in the path of it are warm and safe and dry and that you and yours will be OK. We're sending all of our hopeful thoughts your way!
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 23, 2012
WHY CAN'T I JUST BE NORMAL?
As I was trying to get my wit (*) about me on Sunday, I kept saying to no one in particular...."You only have three things to do today. Read the papers. Make pasta fagioli. Stitch."
(*) And yes, I know that the expression is "get my wits about me", but come on. This is ME we're talking about. I am, most definitely, a little short in the whole "wit" department. Thus...wit singular versus wit plural.
Nine hours later I collapsed into the Happy Chair wondering why I just couldn't be a normal person like everybody else and do things in moderation. I futzed and cleaned and laundered and flipped and re-filled and polished and swept and scoured and baked and washed and dried and organized and moved and dusted and rinsed and folded and fluffed until I thought I was going to drop. What was supposed to be a perfectly quiet Sunday turned into a "Hey! Let's shampoo the furniture and then re-arrange the storage closet in the garage!" kind of day.
Oh well. At least the house looks and smells nice now.
On Saturday, I also did a little housework, but was so wiped out after about ten minutes of it that I decided to call Aunt Chrissy instead. This is one of my very favorite procrastinating techniques, since I can usually convince Aunt Chrissy to go for a cheeseburger, or, if the stars are in perfect alignment, head to the Bed Bath and Freakin Beyond for a bunch of crap that we didn't even know we needed.
"I don't understand it", I whined into the phone. "I used to be able to clean my house from the top to the bottom every single Saturday and then have enough energy to go grocery shopping and out to dinner with my friends afterwards. What's happened to meeeee?"
"Well, for one thing, you're old now and not twenty two", Aunt Chrissy replied. "And for another, your "house" is now bigger than a bedspread and consists of more than a crock pot and a twin bed. Face it, Coni Jo. Life has moved on, even if you haven't. It's 2012. You're 46 and feeble and should be grateful that Stewey and I haven't put you in a lovely "retirement community" by now."
At least that's what the conversation sounded like in my head, anyway.
The truth of the matter is that I was the one that admitted that I'm just not able to keep up like I used to. This revelation particularly sucks, because once you've gotten yourself used to an OCD perfection of immaculateness, it's hard to let it go and peacefully co-exist with dust bunnies and the occasional puppy nose print. My surroundings used to look like a surgical theater. Now, they're more like a crime scene.
Hope is not lost, however, since I am convinced that the only thing I need to do is create a weekly routine that will allow for some easy chores in the morning and a lot of happy stitching in the evenings. If I'm really good and learn to embrace the whole "no need to dis-assemble the entire refrigerator every four days to clean and disinfect it" approach, I might actually learn to enjoy this new stage of my life.
In the meantime, anybody wanna go for a cheeseburger?
(*) And yes, I know that the expression is "get my wits about me", but come on. This is ME we're talking about. I am, most definitely, a little short in the whole "wit" department. Thus...wit singular versus wit plural.
Nine hours later I collapsed into the Happy Chair wondering why I just couldn't be a normal person like everybody else and do things in moderation. I futzed and cleaned and laundered and flipped and re-filled and polished and swept and scoured and baked and washed and dried and organized and moved and dusted and rinsed and folded and fluffed until I thought I was going to drop. What was supposed to be a perfectly quiet Sunday turned into a "Hey! Let's shampoo the furniture and then re-arrange the storage closet in the garage!" kind of day.
Oh well. At least the house looks and smells nice now.
On Saturday, I also did a little housework, but was so wiped out after about ten minutes of it that I decided to call Aunt Chrissy instead. This is one of my very favorite procrastinating techniques, since I can usually convince Aunt Chrissy to go for a cheeseburger, or, if the stars are in perfect alignment, head to the Bed Bath and Freakin Beyond for a bunch of crap that we didn't even know we needed.
"I don't understand it", I whined into the phone. "I used to be able to clean my house from the top to the bottom every single Saturday and then have enough energy to go grocery shopping and out to dinner with my friends afterwards. What's happened to meeeee?"
"Well, for one thing, you're old now and not twenty two", Aunt Chrissy replied. "And for another, your "house" is now bigger than a bedspread and consists of more than a crock pot and a twin bed. Face it, Coni Jo. Life has moved on, even if you haven't. It's 2012. You're 46 and feeble and should be grateful that Stewey and I haven't put you in a lovely "retirement community" by now."
At least that's what the conversation sounded like in my head, anyway.
The truth of the matter is that I was the one that admitted that I'm just not able to keep up like I used to. This revelation particularly sucks, because once you've gotten yourself used to an OCD perfection of immaculateness, it's hard to let it go and peacefully co-exist with dust bunnies and the occasional puppy nose print. My surroundings used to look like a surgical theater. Now, they're more like a crime scene.
Hope is not lost, however, since I am convinced that the only thing I need to do is create a weekly routine that will allow for some easy chores in the morning and a lot of happy stitching in the evenings. If I'm really good and learn to embrace the whole "no need to dis-assemble the entire refrigerator every four days to clean and disinfect it" approach, I might actually learn to enjoy this new stage of my life.
In the meantime, anybody wanna go for a cheeseburger?
Oct 22, 2012
A MONDAY MORNING VIEW FROM THE HAPPY CHAIR
Oct 18, 2012
ISN'T THIS LOVELY?
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's fainted dead away at the sight of this lovely new piece from Aunt Laura J. Perin, Her Very Self. It's called HARVEST MOON HOUSE, and I for one can't wait to see it stitched, handsomely framed, and then up on the wall. Isn't it swell?
Methinks it's just what the old lady needs to grab the last of the gorgeous fall color and whoop it up on a Saturday afternoon or two. I'll let you know the moment it's underway. In the meantime, I hope that today brings you nothing but joy and bubbles.
With much love from your pal,
Stewey
Methinks it's just what the old lady needs to grab the last of the gorgeous fall color and whoop it up on a Saturday afternoon or two. I'll let you know the moment it's underway. In the meantime, I hope that today brings you nothing but joy and bubbles.
With much love from your pal,
Stewey
Oct 17, 2012
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO FUTZINGDAY?
Wednesdays around here used to involve a time to unplug and re-boot. I figured that this would be a good day to just concentrate on doing nothing. You know....a little futz here, a little futz there. Here a futz. There a futz. Everywhere a futz futz. Just a day to stare at walls or play with something new or bang around up in the studio. And the one thing that I promised myself was that I would, under no circumstances, turn on this bloody machine and then be tied to it for hours and hours and hours like I am most of the other days of the week.
So much for that.
Here's a little progress on what's been going on around here of late. A whole lot of absolutely nothing:
So much for that.
Here's a little progress on what's been going on around here of late. A whole lot of absolutely nothing:
...at least we're very well rested...
Oct 15, 2012
STEWEY WEEKEND BLISS
snoozy...snoozy...snoozy...water the drapes....snoozy...snoozy...snoozy...water the ottoman...turkey bacon!...water the Happy Chair...snoozy...snoozy...veto Mo-ther's choice of grocery shopping attire...snoozy...water the freshly planted pansy garden...snoozy...veto Mo-ther's choice of sleeping attire...snoozy...snoozy...snoozy...bark at birds...bark at squirrels...bark at obnoxious neighbor grandchildren who are only here on Notre Dame football weekends but who think they own the whole gd place and can't understand why it is not at all fair that we cannot enjoy a lazy Sunday with The New York Times and a damn good cup of coffee because they insist on all of that caterwauling...snoozy..snoozy...Mo-ther back in the Happy Chair stitching...snoozy...snoozy...snoozy....Mo-ther coughing her brains out all over the place...snoozy...snoozy...snoozy...water everything
Turning Leaves
Laura J. Perin Designs
18ct. mono canvas
threads as called for, except for some really sparkly gold that I had in my stash
Oct 10, 2012
FIDDLESTICKS, NUTS, AND FUDGE
Before I moved to New Jersey (sometime in the year 1993), the worst curse words that I used were rather banal. As a matter of fact, I now hear more and more of these words on network TeeVee, and, to further my point that they really are very bland, not during late night hours. But once I made myself a resident of the Garden State, I somehow thought that a lot of well-chosen expletives would make me fit in.
They didn't.
At all.
The only thing they did was make all of my fellow New Jersey-ans wonder what the heck was up with the hayseed Hoosier stumbling her way around Margate, and on more than one occasion, I caught sight of someone in the Park and Shop shaking their head in wonder that I was able to figure out how to get out of bed in the morning.
What can I say? I'm a doofus and always have been.
So when I woke up this morning and realized that The Illness of Epic Proportions had come back, the words that flew out of my mouth in between hacking up a lung or two were NOT ready for prime time. As of yesterday it has officially been one month since I have fallen ill, and I'm not exactly what you'd call handling it with dignity and grace. I'm miserable and headed back to the big girl sleigh bed with a cuddly puppy and a bar of soap for my potty mouth.
Don't cry for me, Argentina. This too shall pass. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves.
They didn't.
At all.
The only thing they did was make all of my fellow New Jersey-ans wonder what the heck was up with the hayseed Hoosier stumbling her way around Margate, and on more than one occasion, I caught sight of someone in the Park and Shop shaking their head in wonder that I was able to figure out how to get out of bed in the morning.
What can I say? I'm a doofus and always have been.
So when I woke up this morning and realized that The Illness of Epic Proportions had come back, the words that flew out of my mouth in between hacking up a lung or two were NOT ready for prime time. As of yesterday it has officially been one month since I have fallen ill, and I'm not exactly what you'd call handling it with dignity and grace. I'm miserable and headed back to the big girl sleigh bed with a cuddly puppy and a bar of soap for my potty mouth.
Don't cry for me, Argentina. This too shall pass. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves.
Oct 8, 2012
SPINSTER WEEKEND BLISS
lunch with an old friend...reading a library book that didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out...a warm sudsy bath for Stewey....a warm sudsy bath for Spinster...grocery shopping with Aunt Chrissy...You've Got Mail on WE teevee (twice)...46 degrees and raining....house colder than a meat locker....turning the fireplace on for the first time....a warm sleepy puppy giving me kisses.....damn good coffee and The New York Times...finishing the freakin' crossword puzzle in less than eighteen hours...naps...looking outside and seeing that the gardens have all been put to bed for the winter...red mums...sleeping in.....the sun on my face, freshly laundered sheets, and a snoring puppy during a long snoozy nap...studio time....picking up a needle again after a month's hiatus....thinking about how wonderful Mom was and wishing she was here for her 79th birthday...more damn good coffee....shirmp cocktail with extra horseradish in the sauce....Sunday dinner in front of the fireplace...listening to Bach on the car radio...looking at all of the gorgeous Fall color....more naps...more coffee...more newspapers...more stitching....more everything
Turning Leaves
Laura J. Perin Designs
Halloween Treat
The American Needlepoint Guild
Sergei
Plum Street Samplers
Autumn Arbor
The Drawn Thread
Oct 5, 2012
SO NOW WE'RE WRITING LISTS
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's at the kitchen table (with a big fat Panera bagel, I might add) writing lists.
Apparently, the old lady has decided that if she writes enough stuff down on $1 bin notepads from the Michael's things will eventually get done around here. This, of course, is because my Aunt Chrissy employs the use of lists and always seems to be productive and well organized.
Alas, it is not so with my stupid mo-ther.
The first list that she wrote was for the grocery shopping excursion that will take place once Aunt Chrissy gets home from work and then calls to tell Mo-ther to put her shoes on and get moving so that they can get home a decent hour. Normally, they go to the grocery on Thursday nights, but Aunt Chrissy has requested a change to Fridays to help accommodate the inevitable migraine that will ensue after watching my mo-ther (always unsuccessfully) try to find kumquats. Or exotic handmade noodles. Or some other stupid thing she saw on the Food Network that is surely only available in cities more cosmopolitan than this little cow patch we call home.
I caught sight of other lists like "Things to Do Today", "Things To Do This Weekend", "Things To Do This Fall", and finally, "Things to Do This Winter", but I'm not at all optimistic that anything at all will be accomplished, since I see that the first thing on each and every list is "Clean the House". We're not exactly eligible for a reality show intervention just yet, but let's just say that I've taken to wearing my garden clogs inside the house to avoid the collision of dust bunnies that happens when a breeze causes them to scurry across the hardwood. Also, if the old lady doesn't start putting the freshly laundered clothes away instead of fishing the next pair of sweatpants out of the basket from atop the dryer, I'm going to stop using lavender soap and switch to the generic stuff. (For her clothes only, of course. I do still have MY standards.)
The most disconcerting thing I've noticed on these lists is "Revamp the Studio and Re-Think Stitching". This means that we're in for several months of hair-pulling, sweaty-faced bawling and bitching about the lack of stitching that's gone on around here since the Great Bronchitis Epidemic of 2012 that has rendered my stupid mo-ther even more catatonic than usual. I'm not sure if it's the meds or the fact that she can't seem to go more than nine seconds without hacking up a lung, but I haven't seen a threaded needle anywhere near the Happy Chair in over a month. Pity, really, since she does have so many lovely things started, and one can only imagine how much better the Big White Walls of Nothingness would look with a little framed decor'.
I suppose that this list writing frenzy is inevitable, since I overheard Mo-ther telling Aunt Chrissy that she's coming up on the 10th anniversary of living here in her little house, and these types of milestones always start her thinking about how she might improve things so that she's finally living in a feature article in Martha Stewart Living. I hate to tell her this, but life with Spinster is more like something you'd see in the Psychiatric Quarterly, but I'll let her tire herself out a bit before breaking the sad news that perfection isn't a word that should be in her little dictionary.
As for my own lists, they are short and sweet. As you know, I am prone to bouts of eye-rolling condescension when it comes to participating in banal trivialities like list writing, so I try to keep things on a more sophisticated level. Today will find me researching 18th century dressing gowns as worn by the French aristocracy, and this weekend I plan to review several new indie films from the 2012 New York Film Festival. If time permits, I might make a lovely little cassoulet to enjoy with a good Pinot, but we'll have to see how this impacts my nap schedule.
I do hope that your lists are considerably more promising and that the weekend is full of fun things for you. I'll be back soon to report on Mo-ther's successes and (most assuredly more likely) failures. Until then, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With much love from your pal,
Stewey
Apparently, the old lady has decided that if she writes enough stuff down on $1 bin notepads from the Michael's things will eventually get done around here. This, of course, is because my Aunt Chrissy employs the use of lists and always seems to be productive and well organized.
Alas, it is not so with my stupid mo-ther.
The first list that she wrote was for the grocery shopping excursion that will take place once Aunt Chrissy gets home from work and then calls to tell Mo-ther to put her shoes on and get moving so that they can get home a decent hour. Normally, they go to the grocery on Thursday nights, but Aunt Chrissy has requested a change to Fridays to help accommodate the inevitable migraine that will ensue after watching my mo-ther (always unsuccessfully) try to find kumquats. Or exotic handmade noodles. Or some other stupid thing she saw on the Food Network that is surely only available in cities more cosmopolitan than this little cow patch we call home.
I caught sight of other lists like "Things to Do Today", "Things To Do This Weekend", "Things To Do This Fall", and finally, "Things to Do This Winter", but I'm not at all optimistic that anything at all will be accomplished, since I see that the first thing on each and every list is "Clean the House". We're not exactly eligible for a reality show intervention just yet, but let's just say that I've taken to wearing my garden clogs inside the house to avoid the collision of dust bunnies that happens when a breeze causes them to scurry across the hardwood. Also, if the old lady doesn't start putting the freshly laundered clothes away instead of fishing the next pair of sweatpants out of the basket from atop the dryer, I'm going to stop using lavender soap and switch to the generic stuff. (For her clothes only, of course. I do still have MY standards.)
The most disconcerting thing I've noticed on these lists is "Revamp the Studio and Re-Think Stitching". This means that we're in for several months of hair-pulling, sweaty-faced bawling and bitching about the lack of stitching that's gone on around here since the Great Bronchitis Epidemic of 2012 that has rendered my stupid mo-ther even more catatonic than usual. I'm not sure if it's the meds or the fact that she can't seem to go more than nine seconds without hacking up a lung, but I haven't seen a threaded needle anywhere near the Happy Chair in over a month. Pity, really, since she does have so many lovely things started, and one can only imagine how much better the Big White Walls of Nothingness would look with a little framed decor'.
I suppose that this list writing frenzy is inevitable, since I overheard Mo-ther telling Aunt Chrissy that she's coming up on the 10th anniversary of living here in her little house, and these types of milestones always start her thinking about how she might improve things so that she's finally living in a feature article in Martha Stewart Living. I hate to tell her this, but life with Spinster is more like something you'd see in the Psychiatric Quarterly, but I'll let her tire herself out a bit before breaking the sad news that perfection isn't a word that should be in her little dictionary.
As for my own lists, they are short and sweet. As you know, I am prone to bouts of eye-rolling condescension when it comes to participating in banal trivialities like list writing, so I try to keep things on a more sophisticated level. Today will find me researching 18th century dressing gowns as worn by the French aristocracy, and this weekend I plan to review several new indie films from the 2012 New York Film Festival. If time permits, I might make a lovely little cassoulet to enjoy with a good Pinot, but we'll have to see how this impacts my nap schedule.
I do hope that your lists are considerably more promising and that the weekend is full of fun things for you. I'll be back soon to report on Mo-ther's successes and (most assuredly more likely) failures. Until then, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With much love from your pal,
Stewey
Oct 3, 2012
IF HE ASKS, JUST TELL HIM IT'S CANYON RANCH, K?
Today I decided to do something nice for Stewey, so at 1 o'clock we're going to go have a little spa day.
Well, not a spa day, really. More like an appointment at the v-e-t to get his toenails trimmed.
But we're going to pretend like it's a spa day so that Mommie Dearest here can feel better about the last month and a half of sheer neglect he's had to endure, and Little Lord Fauntleroy can stop clickety clacking all over the hardwoods.
Do you suppose if I slap a little Enya on his iPod during the drive over there he'll fall for it?
Well, not a spa day, really. More like an appointment at the v-e-t to get his toenails trimmed.
But we're going to pretend like it's a spa day so that Mommie Dearest here can feel better about the last month and a half of sheer neglect he's had to endure, and Little Lord Fauntleroy can stop clickety clacking all over the hardwoods.
Do you suppose if I slap a little Enya on his iPod during the drive over there he'll fall for it?
Oct 1, 2012
WELL, SO MUCH FOR SEPTEMBER
Remember that silly spinster who said "I'm really going to enjoy the Fall this year", and then she went and caught what can only be described as The Plague of Biblical Proportions That She Wouldn't Wish On Her Worst Enemy that caused her to miss an entire month of her life to weapons-grade pharmaceuticals and doctor visits and enough bitching and moaning and complaining to qualify her for her very own reality show on the Bravo Tee Vee networks?
She's ba-aaack.
Well, not completely, but at least I'm able to sit upright in a chair without wondering why somebody saw fit to prop my entire house on some kind of crazyass cantilevered platform that replicated the deck of the Titanic every time I thought about moving my eyeballs more than a millimeter to the left or right.
Throw in liquid Vicodin and you've got yourself some pretty entertaining shenanigans right there, people. (Liquid Vicodin...did you know they even MADE that stuff?) As somebody who carries a big sign around that says "Warning! I'm allergic to narcotic pain meds", I have to say that the recommendation to try this stuff came with the realization that even my family doctor was tired of hearing me complain and that she had finally decided to help me just shut the heck up already.
So here I sit, wondering where September went, but doggedly determined to embrace October and all of its charms. If I can make it up the stairs without having to stop for a nap, I'm going to spend some time in the studio today trying to regain my lost stitching mojo. If all goes well I won't have to call Aunt Chrissy and the Mishawaka Fire Department to come help me back down the stairs and to the big girl sleigh bed and I'll have something worthwhile to blog about in the near future.
What's new with you?
She's ba-aaack.
Well, not completely, but at least I'm able to sit upright in a chair without wondering why somebody saw fit to prop my entire house on some kind of crazyass cantilevered platform that replicated the deck of the Titanic every time I thought about moving my eyeballs more than a millimeter to the left or right.
Throw in liquid Vicodin and you've got yourself some pretty entertaining shenanigans right there, people. (Liquid Vicodin...did you know they even MADE that stuff?) As somebody who carries a big sign around that says "Warning! I'm allergic to narcotic pain meds", I have to say that the recommendation to try this stuff came with the realization that even my family doctor was tired of hearing me complain and that she had finally decided to help me just shut the heck up already.
So here I sit, wondering where September went, but doggedly determined to embrace October and all of its charms. If I can make it up the stairs without having to stop for a nap, I'm going to spend some time in the studio today trying to regain my lost stitching mojo. If all goes well I won't have to call Aunt Chrissy and the Mishawaka Fire Department to come help me back down the stairs and to the big girl sleigh bed and I'll have something worthwhile to blog about in the near future.
What's new with you?
Sep 26, 2012
OEY
So sorry for the long absence, my dear friends. This sickness has totally knocked me for a loop. Truth is, I don't remember when I've ever been this sick for this long.
The good news is that I seem to have lost enough weight that I no longer qualify for my own zip code, but the bad news is that I haven't had a needle in my hand in over three weeks.
Please bear with me....I'll be back as soon as I can. Thank you for all of your lovely thoughts.
Coni
P.S. Both Stewey and Aunt Chrissy send their love and affection and promise that they will continue to take good care of me.
The good news is that I seem to have lost enough weight that I no longer qualify for my own zip code, but the bad news is that I haven't had a needle in my hand in over three weeks.
Please bear with me....I'll be back as soon as I can. Thank you for all of your lovely thoughts.
Coni
P.S. Both Stewey and Aunt Chrissy send their love and affection and promise that they will continue to take good care of me.
Sep 14, 2012
NURSE STEWEY, PAGING NURSE STEWEY.
You know that scene in You've Got Mail in which Tom Hanks shows up at Meg Ryan's apartment when he hears she's sick, and she answers the door looking adorable in menswear pajamas and a trench coat with just the right amount of hair tossle-ness to indicate that she's under the weather? And how she sneezes into the intercom and says "I have a TEMPature!"
(The wads of tissues stuffed into her pockets and a few well-hidden soup bowls also add to effect, but you know what I mean, right?)
Well I'm here to tell you that this, most definitely, ain't it.
I awoke Monday with what I presumed to be the flu, but alas, I am (she says while throwing her forearm across her forehead in dramatic fashion) at death's door with bronchitis.
(OK. Not the door, really. More like the vestibule.)
But I am sickety, sick, sick and can't remember when I have ever felt so lousy. I keep waiting for my mom to come in and put a fresh sheet on the couch, set up the TeeVee tray with ginger ale and saltine crackers, and then smooth my hair from my fevered brow with her cool soft hands.
(Considering the fact that she's been gone for 25 years, this would be quite feat.)
So I'm stuck with one very patient, yet exasperated sister and a dog that insists on wearing a nurses' cap, stethoscope, and Easy Comfort white Career Collection Casuals instead. If he doesn't stop bitching about the fact that there's no official nursing cape for him to sling over his shoulder with his customary flair, I'm going to open the front door and hope that he decides to finally run away from home.
Fear not, sweet friends, for I shall repair shortly. Thanks to some industrial-strength pharmaceuticals (*) and enough Sobe Life Water to float a barge, methinks I just might live to tell the tale, after all.
(*) I'm sorry to report that one of these meds is Prednisone. Although not in the same doses at the Great Prednisone Caper of 2002, they are, nonetheless high enough to invoke the "I Shall Not Write Things, Say Things, Or Have Any Public Interaction With Nice People While Under The Influence Of This Stuff" pledge as was signed, sealed, and delivered circa 2004.
(I will, however, be sure to write something in my private journals each day, and if the proper authorities determine that there is anything is comic value there, we'll publish in the interest of not losing all of my loyal and devoted fans.)
(See? The crazy delusional nutball version of me is coming out already.)
Woo Hoo!
(The wads of tissues stuffed into her pockets and a few well-hidden soup bowls also add to effect, but you know what I mean, right?)
Well I'm here to tell you that this, most definitely, ain't it.
I awoke Monday with what I presumed to be the flu, but alas, I am (she says while throwing her forearm across her forehead in dramatic fashion) at death's door with bronchitis.
(OK. Not the door, really. More like the vestibule.)
But I am sickety, sick, sick and can't remember when I have ever felt so lousy. I keep waiting for my mom to come in and put a fresh sheet on the couch, set up the TeeVee tray with ginger ale and saltine crackers, and then smooth my hair from my fevered brow with her cool soft hands.
(Considering the fact that she's been gone for 25 years, this would be quite feat.)
So I'm stuck with one very patient, yet exasperated sister and a dog that insists on wearing a nurses' cap, stethoscope, and Easy Comfort white Career Collection Casuals instead. If he doesn't stop bitching about the fact that there's no official nursing cape for him to sling over his shoulder with his customary flair, I'm going to open the front door and hope that he decides to finally run away from home.
Fear not, sweet friends, for I shall repair shortly. Thanks to some industrial-strength pharmaceuticals (*) and enough Sobe Life Water to float a barge, methinks I just might live to tell the tale, after all.
(*) I'm sorry to report that one of these meds is Prednisone. Although not in the same doses at the Great Prednisone Caper of 2002, they are, nonetheless high enough to invoke the "I Shall Not Write Things, Say Things, Or Have Any Public Interaction With Nice People While Under The Influence Of This Stuff" pledge as was signed, sealed, and delivered circa 2004.
(I will, however, be sure to write something in my private journals each day, and if the proper authorities determine that there is anything is comic value there, we'll publish in the interest of not losing all of my loyal and devoted fans.)
(See? The crazy delusional nutball version of me is coming out already.)
Woo Hoo!
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 6, 2012
A MIGRAINE HAIKU (FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE ON A RANDOM THURSDAY)
tired cranky mess
stewey ready for a nap
oh, my throbbing head
stewey ready for a nap
oh, my throbbing head
Sep 3, 2012
C'MON, FALL
Anybody else ready for 54 degrees, sweatpants, crockpot cooking, and the smell of leaves in the air?
I know I am.
Thank you for all of your lovely best wishes for my survival. I'm happy to report that I did indeed live to tell the tale and that it looks like all of this clean living is paying off.
I spent the entire day up in the studio (despite the beastly heat and humidity), but I don't have anything to show for it other than a lot of empty project bags and some pretty well-organized thread drawers. As soon as I get my Fall Stitchy Groove on, I'll be back with photographic evidence. In the meantime, here's a pic of Daphne as I caught her mid-kissy with Stewey moments ago:
Hope your weekend/Monday was all you hoped it would be! Woo Hoo!
I know I am.
Thank you for all of your lovely best wishes for my survival. I'm happy to report that I did indeed live to tell the tale and that it looks like all of this clean living is paying off.
I spent the entire day up in the studio (despite the beastly heat and humidity), but I don't have anything to show for it other than a lot of empty project bags and some pretty well-organized thread drawers. As soon as I get my Fall Stitchy Groove on, I'll be back with photographic evidence. In the meantime, here's a pic of Daphne as I caught her mid-kissy with Stewey moments ago:
Hope your weekend/Monday was all you hoped it would be! Woo Hoo!
Aug 30, 2012
I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED A TRAPPER KEEPER
Most people prepare for the new school year with pens and pencils and new folders and notebooks and such.
Me, I prepare with colonoscopies.
Yup. Call it TMI, but suffice it to say that today involves a lot of Jell-o and clear liquids, and tomorrow I will be trying to pretend that I'm at Canyon Ranch enjoying a "rejuvenating cleansing" that will result in shinier skin and a healthy glow.
Truth be told, I don't have one thing to complain about when it comes to these things. My physician, Dr. Mark, is a rock star and has become a trusted member of Team Spinster over the years. He has what can only be described as an appropriate sense of humor for somebody that spends the better part of a day looking at people's heineys, so you have to love that about him and not take the "turn over onto your left side" thing too seriously.
I don't get this test every year because I like writing about it. I get it because Mom died at the tender age of 54 from metastatic colon cancer, and her mother/our gramdmother died a few months before her of the exact same thing. Combine that with the medical wonder that is me, and you've got a surety that a small bit of inconvenience every twelve months will probably save my life. Add that to the sad fact that Aunt Chrissy and I are the last of the Mohicans when it comes to this part of the family tree, and you've got yourself a "shut up and get this done" reason that precludes any discomfort on my part.
So eat your vegetables, do what your doctors tell you, and suck it up and go get yourself checked out every now and then. And if the thought of this type of procedure doesn't blow your skirt up, consider the fact that celebrities everywhere pay tens of thousands of dollars for colonic irrigations that don't come with the added bonus of photographic evidence that you might be around a little while longer to aggravate the hell out of your family members.
End of public health advisory.....
Progress continues on Lavender Fields. I'm still struggling with my color selection, but I think that once everything is stitched I'll like the result. After another slug of Gatorade, methinks it's time to hit the Happy Chair.
Me, I prepare with colonoscopies.
Yup. Call it TMI, but suffice it to say that today involves a lot of Jell-o and clear liquids, and tomorrow I will be trying to pretend that I'm at Canyon Ranch enjoying a "rejuvenating cleansing" that will result in shinier skin and a healthy glow.
Truth be told, I don't have one thing to complain about when it comes to these things. My physician, Dr. Mark, is a rock star and has become a trusted member of Team Spinster over the years. He has what can only be described as an appropriate sense of humor for somebody that spends the better part of a day looking at people's heineys, so you have to love that about him and not take the "turn over onto your left side" thing too seriously.
I don't get this test every year because I like writing about it. I get it because Mom died at the tender age of 54 from metastatic colon cancer, and her mother/our gramdmother died a few months before her of the exact same thing. Combine that with the medical wonder that is me, and you've got a surety that a small bit of inconvenience every twelve months will probably save my life. Add that to the sad fact that Aunt Chrissy and I are the last of the Mohicans when it comes to this part of the family tree, and you've got yourself a "shut up and get this done" reason that precludes any discomfort on my part.
So eat your vegetables, do what your doctors tell you, and suck it up and go get yourself checked out every now and then. And if the thought of this type of procedure doesn't blow your skirt up, consider the fact that celebrities everywhere pay tens of thousands of dollars for colonic irrigations that don't come with the added bonus of photographic evidence that you might be around a little while longer to aggravate the hell out of your family members.
End of public health advisory.....
Aug 27, 2012
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER FLU-CATION, BY MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP, HIS VERY LITTLE SELF
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's sitting in the corner, thinking about what a total beast she's been lately.
It all started with the heat and humidity. We all know how much the old lady loves to dissolve into a sweaty mess at 8:30 in the morning, and the fact that this hot spell has lasted for several months certainly hasn't helped matters any.
Then we had the annual "THE SKY IS FALLING" marathon of West Nile Virus reports, hurricanes in the Gulf, and the ever-present screaming of the local weatherman to take cover. This constant barage of newsiness was not at all what the doctor ordered for my stupid mo-ther's tattered nerves.
Just when I thought things were starting to calm down a bit and we had reached a happy medium of napping, eating, and Food Network Tee Vee watching.....the bottom dropped out. "This Saturday, watch as Gail and Robert celebrate their love on a special episode of Wedding Impossible". My snoring, slobbering mo-ther bolted upright in the chair and started screeching. "HE'S GETTING MARRIED???!!!! MARRIED?!!! WITHOUT ME???!!!" And then, to make matters worse, we discovered that Chef Robert Irvine did indeed get married, and to a lovely professional lady wrestler named Gail King.
Needless to say, THAT particular evening sucked for the full fifteen minutes it took for the sedatives to kick in.
Last week, my beloved Aunt Chrissy came down with the flu and came over so that I could care for her properly. I tucked her into the Happy Chair and made sure that she had all of the stitchy-ness, TeeVee, and fluids she could handle, and I convinced my pesky little cousin Bosco to be on good behavior. I think it was good for my Aunt Chrissy, but I know that by Thursday evening, she was definitely ready to go home to her own bed and some peace and quiet.
There has been a little stitching in the midst of all of this. First up is a piece called Bali Ha'i from the designers Michael Boren and Carole Lake. This is the September project for Mo-ther's EGA guild, and is found on the Caron Collections website as a free chart. I think it must be a very enjoyable stitch, since Mo-ther was quiet and behaved during the five or six hours that it took her to stitch it:
The second piece is called Lavender Fields, and is from Needle Delights Originals. I'm not sure what the hell is going on with it, since the colors seem to be giving the old lady fits and starts. She received this as a complete kit from my friend Teddy at The Scarlet Thread, but apparently a few of the colors were a bit too "hot" for Mo-ther's liking, so she decided to change them. All I know is that it now looks like a hot mess. We'll see if she can salvage it:
August is almost over, so that means that Saturday will find us upstairs in the studio putting together the Official Fall Basket of Spinster Stitcher Stitchy Fun. I'm really looking forward to this, since it seems like there's been precious little stitchy accomplishment around here lately. When did my mom suddenly become a "one at a time" stitcher? Weren't there days when she had eight or nine different things going at once? Methinks it's time to give that a try once again.
Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With much love,
Stewey
It all started with the heat and humidity. We all know how much the old lady loves to dissolve into a sweaty mess at 8:30 in the morning, and the fact that this hot spell has lasted for several months certainly hasn't helped matters any.
Then we had the annual "THE SKY IS FALLING" marathon of West Nile Virus reports, hurricanes in the Gulf, and the ever-present screaming of the local weatherman to take cover. This constant barage of newsiness was not at all what the doctor ordered for my stupid mo-ther's tattered nerves.
Just when I thought things were starting to calm down a bit and we had reached a happy medium of napping, eating, and Food Network Tee Vee watching.....the bottom dropped out. "This Saturday, watch as Gail and Robert celebrate their love on a special episode of Wedding Impossible". My snoring, slobbering mo-ther bolted upright in the chair and started screeching. "HE'S GETTING MARRIED???!!!! MARRIED?!!! WITHOUT ME???!!!" And then, to make matters worse, we discovered that Chef Robert Irvine did indeed get married, and to a lovely professional lady wrestler named Gail King.
Needless to say, THAT particular evening sucked for the full fifteen minutes it took for the sedatives to kick in.
Last week, my beloved Aunt Chrissy came down with the flu and came over so that I could care for her properly. I tucked her into the Happy Chair and made sure that she had all of the stitchy-ness, TeeVee, and fluids she could handle, and I convinced my pesky little cousin Bosco to be on good behavior. I think it was good for my Aunt Chrissy, but I know that by Thursday evening, she was definitely ready to go home to her own bed and some peace and quiet.
There has been a little stitching in the midst of all of this. First up is a piece called Bali Ha'i from the designers Michael Boren and Carole Lake. This is the September project for Mo-ther's EGA guild, and is found on the Caron Collections website as a free chart. I think it must be a very enjoyable stitch, since Mo-ther was quiet and behaved during the five or six hours that it took her to stitch it:
August is almost over, so that means that Saturday will find us upstairs in the studio putting together the Official Fall Basket of Spinster Stitcher Stitchy Fun. I'm really looking forward to this, since it seems like there's been precious little stitchy accomplishment around here lately. When did my mom suddenly become a "one at a time" stitcher? Weren't there days when she had eight or nine different things going at once? Methinks it's time to give that a try once again.
Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With much love,
Stewey
Aug 26, 2012
GO AHEAD. POKE THE BEAR.
I made a solemn promise to Aunt Chrissy that I wouldn't go batshit ballistic crazypants about this, so I will only offer photographic evidence that my beloved alma mater has finally lost its ever-loving mind.
(The smart alleck in me wants to point out that one would think that one would need to have won a few more football games before one decided to desecrate the tradition of a 125-year old program that was at one time considered to be a member of the elite in collegiate athletics, but what do I know)
(And yes, in case you were wondering, I take all of this crap waaaaaaayyyyy too seriously and personally, and I have to constantly remind myself that Brian Kelly didn't go out of his way to completely dishonor the memory of my dad and all of the other amazing Notre Dame alums.)
(It just feels like he did.)
What's next, coach? A Wonderbra on the BVM? Good thing the boys will be able to wear those spanky new outfits on their debut episode of Dancing With The Stars. Just watch out for all of the gold lame' and glitter, though...it's' positively blinding.
Aug 20, 2012
OLYMPIC SEASONS FEE NEE
Seasons
designed by Amy Wolfson, Amybear Needlepoints
18 ct. mono canvas
Threads used (my own colorway):
Watercolours Cardinal, Snow White, and Night Sky
Vineyard Silk: Wedgewood
DMC floss: 3865, 304, and 3750 (1 ply of each, blended together)
Stitched during the 2012 London Olympic Games.
Aug 14, 2012
I COULD HAVE BEEN A CONTENDER
London -- The Closing Ceremonies of the XXX Olympic Games were briefly interrupted on Sunday evening by a portly spinster's frantic efforts to speak with Lord Coe and the Olympic Organizing Committee. "DON'T BLOW IT OUT YET, MISTER COE!", she was heard to exclaim. "I'M NOT QUITE FINISHED YET!" Despite her rather blatant breech of Olympic protocol (and not to mention the fact that he is, indeed, LORD Coe and not "Mister"), the crowd applauded mightily as she scrambled to the podium.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, honored guests, athletes, and portly spinsters everywhere....I ask you to harken back to a time when you attempted a feat and fell short. I ask you to look within yourselves to the deepest part of your competitive spirits and remember what it was like to come within inches of finally reaching your goal. Doesn't everyone have a memory of a dream not realized -- glory left unattained? It is with a humble and contrite heart that I ask -- no, beg! -- you to allow me to finish my special Olympic stitchy project. I'm so close! I know that if given the opportunity and enough dietCoke I could have the piece finished and off to the framer by week's end! Please! Five more days!"
With this, the crowd erupted into roaring approbation, security was told to stand down, and the spinster was carried from the stadium by a group of Belarus weight lifters who, as it turns out, were the only ones equal to the task. After a few days in the Tower of London cooling her heels, rumor has it that the spinster has returned to the productive confines of her Happy Chair in Hoosierville, USA to set about the task of completing THIS once and for all:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, honored guests, athletes, and portly spinsters everywhere....I ask you to harken back to a time when you attempted a feat and fell short. I ask you to look within yourselves to the deepest part of your competitive spirits and remember what it was like to come within inches of finally reaching your goal. Doesn't everyone have a memory of a dream not realized -- glory left unattained? It is with a humble and contrite heart that I ask -- no, beg! -- you to allow me to finish my special Olympic stitchy project. I'm so close! I know that if given the opportunity and enough dietCoke I could have the piece finished and off to the framer by week's end! Please! Five more days!"
With this, the crowd erupted into roaring approbation, security was told to stand down, and the spinster was carried from the stadium by a group of Belarus weight lifters who, as it turns out, were the only ones equal to the task. After a few days in the Tower of London cooling her heels, rumor has it that the spinster has returned to the productive confines of her Happy Chair in Hoosierville, USA to set about the task of completing THIS once and for all:
Aug 9, 2012
WHERE CAN I GET SOME OF THAT TAPE?
Further evidence of my athletic prowess comes in the form of a stitching injury.
Yes, you read that correctly.
I have a stitching injury that will probably require advanced medical technology and/or the careful attention of a Mayo Clinic trained physician who might look remarkably like Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Do you suppose that I could get my hands on some of that fancypants tape that all of the Olympic athletes are wearing? You know -- the stuff that they put on their excruciatingly well-sculpted parts to assist them in jumping the approximate length of a football field while simultaneously whistling the theme song from the first Rocky movie?
Here is where I should probably confess that my injury is really nothing more than a sore spot on my finger that is caused by the repeated poking of a needle through this:
It's coming along nicely, and I really am enjoying every minute of it, but I realize now that I would be crazy lucky to finish it before the end of the closing ceremonies on Sunday. I'm determined, though, so I suppose that I had better get back to the Happy Chair before the day gets away from me again.
Stewey, of course, is completely disgusted by all of it and secretly wishes that I would just run away from home. I keep catching him in the closet moving my things about as if he's measuring for a new organizing system for his little silk smoking jackets.
Yes, you read that correctly.
I have a stitching injury that will probably require advanced medical technology and/or the careful attention of a Mayo Clinic trained physician who might look remarkably like Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Do you suppose that I could get my hands on some of that fancypants tape that all of the Olympic athletes are wearing? You know -- the stuff that they put on their excruciatingly well-sculpted parts to assist them in jumping the approximate length of a football field while simultaneously whistling the theme song from the first Rocky movie?
Here is where I should probably confess that my injury is really nothing more than a sore spot on my finger that is caused by the repeated poking of a needle through this:
Seasons
AmyBear Needlepoints
(color conversion in honor of the 2012 London Olympic games)
It's coming along nicely, and I really am enjoying every minute of it, but I realize now that I would be crazy lucky to finish it before the end of the closing ceremonies on Sunday. I'm determined, though, so I suppose that I had better get back to the Happy Chair before the day gets away from me again.
Stewey, of course, is completely disgusted by all of it and secretly wishes that I would just run away from home. I keep catching him in the closet moving my things about as if he's measuring for a new organizing system for his little silk smoking jackets.
"I could have thrived with a smarter owner."
Aug 7, 2012
OH, STOP. (NO. REALLY. YOU'VE GOT TO STOP ENCOURAGING HER.)
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She and her big fat head are stuck in the shower stall, singing "I, AM THE CHAMPION, MY FRENNNND!) for all the world to hear. I suspect that this is the direct result of all of your lovely comments about her stitching and her "brilliant" thread selection and stitching prowess.
May I just point out that this "brilliance" is nothing more than sheer dumb luck?
Mo-ther can't select threads and/or proper colors to save her miserable little life. If she announces that she's going to do a thread conversion on a project, I call my Aunt Chrissy and holler into the telephone "CODE PINK! WE HAVE A CODE PINK SITUATION, AUNT CHRISSY!" and she comes right over to pick me up. I stay away long enough for Mo-ther to exhaust herself, and I usually return to find her face down on the studio floor muttering something about color theory and the injustice of not being able to find the perfect greenish brown for roof shingles. (Or some other such nonsense.)
In the case of the "needle blending" on our Olympic Seasons piece, I am going to reveal the secret to you all so that you will finally know that my old lady is nothing more than a ginormous fraud.
Are you ready?
Mo-ther decided to use the needle blending technique on this piece because SHE WAS TOO FREAKIN' LAZY TO GO UPSTAIRS TO THE STUDIO TO FIND A PROPER COLOR! SHE WENT INTO THE GUEST ROOM AND FISHED THROUGH THE BASKET OF CRAP ON THE BED UNTIL SHE CAME UP WITH A RED, A WHITE, AND A BLUE FLOSS, AND THEN SHE GRUNTED "GOOD ENOUGH" AND PLANTED HER FANNY BACK IN THE CHAIR.
So all of this genius you're seeing is nothing more than sloth and indifference in action.
We're going to have a quiet afternoon, since Mo-ther seems to have done something to her foot. She awoke screaming in agony and immediately called Aunt Chrissy to advise her that the sky was falling and that never in the history of man had there been such excruciating pain. Considering the fact that my poor Aunt Chrissy lives with a trifecta of complex migraines, my mo-ther and all of her antics, and my stinky (and very pesky) little cousin, I'm surprised that she didn't just call the men in the "special white van" once and for all and disappear into the void.
That's the report for today. I do hope that you are well and that your own needles are doing exactly what you'd like them to do!
Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend,
Stewey
May I just point out that this "brilliance" is nothing more than sheer dumb luck?
Mo-ther can't select threads and/or proper colors to save her miserable little life. If she announces that she's going to do a thread conversion on a project, I call my Aunt Chrissy and holler into the telephone "CODE PINK! WE HAVE A CODE PINK SITUATION, AUNT CHRISSY!" and she comes right over to pick me up. I stay away long enough for Mo-ther to exhaust herself, and I usually return to find her face down on the studio floor muttering something about color theory and the injustice of not being able to find the perfect greenish brown for roof shingles. (Or some other such nonsense.)
In the case of the "needle blending" on our Olympic Seasons piece, I am going to reveal the secret to you all so that you will finally know that my old lady is nothing more than a ginormous fraud.
Are you ready?
Mo-ther decided to use the needle blending technique on this piece because SHE WAS TOO FREAKIN' LAZY TO GO UPSTAIRS TO THE STUDIO TO FIND A PROPER COLOR! SHE WENT INTO THE GUEST ROOM AND FISHED THROUGH THE BASKET OF CRAP ON THE BED UNTIL SHE CAME UP WITH A RED, A WHITE, AND A BLUE FLOSS, AND THEN SHE GRUNTED "GOOD ENOUGH" AND PLANTED HER FANNY BACK IN THE CHAIR.
So all of this genius you're seeing is nothing more than sloth and indifference in action.
We're going to have a quiet afternoon, since Mo-ther seems to have done something to her foot. She awoke screaming in agony and immediately called Aunt Chrissy to advise her that the sky was falling and that never in the history of man had there been such excruciating pain. Considering the fact that my poor Aunt Chrissy lives with a trifecta of complex migraines, my mo-ther and all of her antics, and my stinky (and very pesky) little cousin, I'm surprised that she didn't just call the men in the "special white van" once and for all and disappear into the void.
That's the report for today. I do hope that you are well and that your own needles are doing exactly what you'd like them to do!
Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend,
Stewey
Aug 6, 2012
WELL I'M DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO BREAK ANY LAND/SPEED RECORDS, THAT'S FOR SURE
You would think that with all of the nothing-ness going on around Chez Spinster these days that the needles would be flying. (You would also think that I would be a 108 pound tri-athlete, based upon the contents of my fridge, but that's another story for another day).
Here's the latest progress on Seasons:
Here's the latest progress on Seasons:
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 1, 2012
A FUTZINGDAY REPORT FROM MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP, HIS VERY LITTLE SELF
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's snoring away in the big girl sleigh bed while I am left to supervise the landscaping crew. This is not a job I enjoy, but considering the importance of having one's bushes trimmed nicely and one's grass mowed properly, I accept the task with my normal good humor and get on with it. Today, though, the boys are testing my patience by repeatedly blowing things around with their backpack leaf blowers. I ask you....has there ever been a more obnoxious tool invented?
Olympic stitching continues nicely, and according to my calculations will be completed at the stroke of midnight on the last night of the games. If the old lady keeps up the pace and doesn't get distracted by something shiny, we should see another nice patriotic FUPPY for the box.
I did manage a few hours of organizing time up in the studio this morning, so if Mo-ther ever regains consciousness and finds some motivation, we might have some framing to show. I went through all of the finished/unfinished/unframed pieces (aka FUPPIES), and matched them up with suitable frames that were on hand. Several years ago, my mom and Aunt Chrissy got the bright idea to purchase frames from the craft stores whenever they got the chance, but seeing how Mo-ther very rarely follows through on anything, those poor frames have languished in the closet for ages. Well, if I have anything to say about it, she will take the time to carefully pin, lace, stretch, and frame the items I've selected and we can all look forward to a nice autumnal selection for the Big White Wall of Nothingness.
I'll leave you with a photo of last evening's progress. Thank you for your lovely comments!
With hopes and wishes for a wonderful Wednesday and with much love,
Stewey
Olympic stitching continues nicely, and according to my calculations will be completed at the stroke of midnight on the last night of the games. If the old lady keeps up the pace and doesn't get distracted by something shiny, we should see another nice patriotic FUPPY for the box.
I did manage a few hours of organizing time up in the studio this morning, so if Mo-ther ever regains consciousness and finds some motivation, we might have some framing to show. I went through all of the finished/unfinished/unframed pieces (aka FUPPIES), and matched them up with suitable frames that were on hand. Several years ago, my mom and Aunt Chrissy got the bright idea to purchase frames from the craft stores whenever they got the chance, but seeing how Mo-ther very rarely follows through on anything, those poor frames have languished in the closet for ages. Well, if I have anything to say about it, she will take the time to carefully pin, lace, stretch, and frame the items I've selected and we can all look forward to a nice autumnal selection for the Big White Wall of Nothingness.
I'll leave you with a photo of last evening's progress. Thank you for your lovely comments!
With hopes and wishes for a wonderful Wednesday and with much love,
Stewey
Jul 31, 2012
AND THEN YOU JUST....SMOOSH
Thank you for all of your lovely comments. Sometimes I question my thoughts and feelings about things, and on more than one occasion I've had to ask Aunt Chrissy "Is it just ME, or...???!!!".
(I stand by my dislike of those damn outfits, though, since I am convinced that there are enough "iconic" American looks out there that we could find something other than the crap that our team is wearing year after year.)
(And yes, in case you're wondering, I will be the last person to kvetch about it if our team shows up wearing Daisy Dukes and tube tops just to spite me.)
(One last thing....is it TOO much to ask that our outfits actually incorporate our national colors? Why is it necessary for us to be trotting around in hot pink, periwinkle, and grey?) Come ON people. Show some respect. This is the Olympics.
As you might know from Stewey's post, I had been fretting over the brightness of the colors in my Watercolours "Firecracker" skeins. I'm really loving the depth of the reds and blues in the piece so far, and the skeins I have are just too hot for my liking. I futzed and futzed with different threads until I had a forehead-smacking epiphany and came up with:
Crazy, no?
In the event that you'd like to try this technique at home, all you need to do is suspend proficiency in everything you've been taught about proper color theory and stitching technique, grab whatever colors you want to use, and then smoosh them all together. I took one ply of red, one of white, and one of blue (all DMC floss), and then stuck 'em in the needle and went to town. Easy peasey.
Yes, I'm fully aware that somewhere out there a stitchy-expert has fainted dead away and that there are probably a million and a half things wrong with doing this, but I like it and that's all that matters, right?
(There, dear Betty. I've saved you the trouble of having to email me to tell me what a boob I am and how I'm corrupting the stitching world with all of my bad grammar and terrible ideas, and how I should just go back to the rock I crawled out from under and blah blah blah. Stick it in your hat, Betty. I smooshed with impunity and I'm going to smoosh some more!)
Today was supposed to be the day that I strapped on my cleaning mojo and finally got this house in order. Naaaaaah. That's what tomorrows are for. I think that a few hours of stitching (and smooshing) would be better for this particular spinster, so looks like I'm off to the Happy Chair! Woo Hoo!
(I stand by my dislike of those damn outfits, though, since I am convinced that there are enough "iconic" American looks out there that we could find something other than the crap that our team is wearing year after year.)
(And yes, in case you're wondering, I will be the last person to kvetch about it if our team shows up wearing Daisy Dukes and tube tops just to spite me.)
(One last thing....is it TOO much to ask that our outfits actually incorporate our national colors? Why is it necessary for us to be trotting around in hot pink, periwinkle, and grey?) Come ON people. Show some respect. This is the Olympics.
As you might know from Stewey's post, I had been fretting over the brightness of the colors in my Watercolours "Firecracker" skeins. I'm really loving the depth of the reds and blues in the piece so far, and the skeins I have are just too hot for my liking. I futzed and futzed with different threads until I had a forehead-smacking epiphany and came up with:
In the event that you'd like to try this technique at home, all you need to do is suspend proficiency in everything you've been taught about proper color theory and stitching technique, grab whatever colors you want to use, and then smoosh them all together. I took one ply of red, one of white, and one of blue (all DMC floss), and then stuck 'em in the needle and went to town. Easy peasey.
Yes, I'm fully aware that somewhere out there a stitchy-expert has fainted dead away and that there are probably a million and a half things wrong with doing this, but I like it and that's all that matters, right?
(There, dear Betty. I've saved you the trouble of having to email me to tell me what a boob I am and how I'm corrupting the stitching world with all of my bad grammar and terrible ideas, and how I should just go back to the rock I crawled out from under and blah blah blah. Stick it in your hat, Betty. I smooshed with impunity and I'm going to smoosh some more!)
Today was supposed to be the day that I strapped on my cleaning mojo and finally got this house in order. Naaaaaah. That's what tomorrows are for. I think that a few hours of stitching (and smooshing) would be better for this particular spinster, so looks like I'm off to the Happy Chair! Woo Hoo!
Jul 30, 2012
DO THEY GIVE GOLD MEDALS FOR SLOTH?
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She awoke at the crack of noon, slurped up a vat of coffee, wolfed down a bagel with chive and onion cream cheese, changed the background on her blog, and then decided that she needed a nap.
Yes. It's evident. I'm living with Shrek.
Thank you for your concern about my health as it relates to my recent gum-chewing incident. The old lady exaggerates, of course, and I can verify that I only had the gum in my mouth for a few brief moments before she lost her head and pried my jaws open to retrieve it. Just between us chickens, though, you should know that I frequently look for any means available for a bit of breath freshening, and I will continue to do so until Mo-ther employs a full time dental specialist to assist me with cleaning my teeth. I am, if nothing else, fastidious when it comes to hygiene.
Aunt Chrissy and Bosco came over on Friday night to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, and we enjoyed a lovely repast of sloppy joes before settling in to our respective Happy Chairs. Mo-ther bawled her way through the pageantry of it all (as usual), and then had her normal outraged response to the U.S. outfits. "Why the **** does Ralph Lauren INSIST on dressing our athletes up like ****ing Delta Airlines flight attendants?!", she bellowed. "For the love of Mike! Cant' he come up with a nice ****ing pedal pusher and some cowboy hats?!!! Berets!! Jaunty scarves!!!! What the **** is up with this??!!!"
By now, we're all used to this, so we just let her go until she either a) tires herself out, or b) heads back into the kitchen to eat something.
As for me, I particularly enjoyed the segment featuring themes from British children's literature. What can I say? I'm a complete sucker when it comes to Mary Poppins.
The Olympic stitching has begun, and I'm happy to report that a good section of AmyBear's Seasons was completed. We've hit a bit of a snag with the multi-colored Watercolours, though, in that the blue is just too bright. I'm fairly certain that there are suitable alternatives up in the studio, so as soon as I hear snoring come from the big girl sleigh bed, I'll sneak up there to see what I can come up with. (Before you judge....please understand that I just can't take another four or five days of hand-wringing and hair-pulling as the old lady tries to re-invent the wheel by controlling the existing thread. It's just a lot easier if I take matters into my own paws and switch the thread out already.)
Since it looks like absolutely nothing is going to be accomplished around here today, I might take advantage of the quiet and finish another library book or two. We're really quite blessed in our area to have some fabulous libraries, so Mo-ther and I have been trying to take advantage of them a little more. I'm about half-way through Wolf Hall at the moment, and although it's not my normal fare I am enjoying it immensely.
I do hope that wherever you are is exactly where you want to be on this fine Monday afternoon. Please take care and know that I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
Yes. It's evident. I'm living with Shrek.
Thank you for your concern about my health as it relates to my recent gum-chewing incident. The old lady exaggerates, of course, and I can verify that I only had the gum in my mouth for a few brief moments before she lost her head and pried my jaws open to retrieve it. Just between us chickens, though, you should know that I frequently look for any means available for a bit of breath freshening, and I will continue to do so until Mo-ther employs a full time dental specialist to assist me with cleaning my teeth. I am, if nothing else, fastidious when it comes to hygiene.
Aunt Chrissy and Bosco came over on Friday night to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, and we enjoyed a lovely repast of sloppy joes before settling in to our respective Happy Chairs. Mo-ther bawled her way through the pageantry of it all (as usual), and then had her normal outraged response to the U.S. outfits. "Why the **** does Ralph Lauren INSIST on dressing our athletes up like ****ing Delta Airlines flight attendants?!", she bellowed. "For the love of Mike! Cant' he come up with a nice ****ing pedal pusher and some cowboy hats?!!! Berets!! Jaunty scarves!!!! What the **** is up with this??!!!"
By now, we're all used to this, so we just let her go until she either a) tires herself out, or b) heads back into the kitchen to eat something.
As for me, I particularly enjoyed the segment featuring themes from British children's literature. What can I say? I'm a complete sucker when it comes to Mary Poppins.
The Olympic stitching has begun, and I'm happy to report that a good section of AmyBear's Seasons was completed. We've hit a bit of a snag with the multi-colored Watercolours, though, in that the blue is just too bright. I'm fairly certain that there are suitable alternatives up in the studio, so as soon as I hear snoring come from the big girl sleigh bed, I'll sneak up there to see what I can come up with. (Before you judge....please understand that I just can't take another four or five days of hand-wringing and hair-pulling as the old lady tries to re-invent the wheel by controlling the existing thread. It's just a lot easier if I take matters into my own paws and switch the thread out already.)
I do hope that wherever you are is exactly where you want to be on this fine Monday afternoon. Please take care and know that I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
Jul 26, 2012
GUM!!! THE DAMN DOG WAS CHEWING GUM!!!
As I settled into the Happy Chair for a little stitching last night I caught something out of the corner of my eye that prompted a frantic call to Aunt Chrissy.
"OH MY GOD!!! THE DOG IS CHEWING GUM! CHEWING!! GUM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? MY! DOG! IS! CHEWING! GUM!
You would think that this would have prompted said aunt to jump into her fancy pants sports car and rush right over, but instead all I heard was a heavy sigh, followed by what I assume was the last remnants of a large glass of wine being administered.
"HE'S CHEWING GUM, AUNT CHRISSY! GUM! HOW THE (BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP) DID MY DOG GET CHEWING GUM!"
With this, Aunt Chrissy asked me to put Stewey on the phone, and after several minutes of discussion, he trotted over and spit the gum out (in rather delicate fashion, I might add) into a tissue.
I swear, the two of them are gas-lighting me.
Here's a little progress on Orchid Maze. I would have accomplished more, but there was the gum incident, as well as several hours of Kevin Costner movie watching to be done.
That's the report for today. I hope that your little corner of the world is considerably less dramatic. Woo Hoo!
"OH MY GOD!!! THE DOG IS CHEWING GUM! CHEWING!! GUM! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? MY! DOG! IS! CHEWING! GUM!
You would think that this would have prompted said aunt to jump into her fancy pants sports car and rush right over, but instead all I heard was a heavy sigh, followed by what I assume was the last remnants of a large glass of wine being administered.
"HE'S CHEWING GUM, AUNT CHRISSY! GUM! HOW THE (BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP) DID MY DOG GET CHEWING GUM!"
With this, Aunt Chrissy asked me to put Stewey on the phone, and after several minutes of discussion, he trotted over and spit the gum out (in rather delicate fashion, I might add) into a tissue.
I swear, the two of them are gas-lighting me.
"See my tiny little bunny teeth? They're minty fresh!"
Here's a little progress on Orchid Maze. I would have accomplished more, but there was the gum incident, as well as several hours of Kevin Costner movie watching to be done.
Jul 23, 2012
MONDAY, MONDAY
Stewey is busy conducting a full inspection of Chez Spinster and all of its messes so that he can write a comprehensive TO-DO list for me. I'm normally presented with such a list during our mandatory Family Meeting on Sunday evenings, but he was about two chapters away from finishing his library book last night, so decided to let me off the hook temporarily. I was hoping that he would just forget about it completely, but he awoke in a rather foul mood and has been tsk tsking over my lack of proper homekeeping skills all morning.
Hope your Monday is off to a good start!
Jul 19, 2012
A LITTLE MORE PROGRESS
Guess it's Downton Abbey instead.
Jul 18, 2012
HOT FUN IN THE SUMMERTIME
I started playing with this yesterday afternoon, and by the time the dinner dishes were finished clattering around in the washer thingie (*) I had accomplished this much:
Back to the Happy Chair!
I hope that wherever you are is exactly where you want to be!
(*) What can I say? I'm a whackadoo when it comes to the dishwasher. I will spend an hour and a half rinsing and washing the dishes BEFORE I put them in the damn thing, and then I'll agonize over the very best placement for proper cleaning efficiency, but when it comes to emptying said damn thing....nope...can't seem to do it in a timely manner whatsoever. I blame this on the fact that I am but one person and that I only run the dishwasher a few times a week when it's full, but who am I trying to kid? I'm without a doubt the laziest person on the whole entire planet.
Jul 17, 2012
JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM
Jul 12, 2012
COMPELLING EVIDENCE THAT MY MO-THER IS INDEED A COMPLETE AND TOTAL DOOFUS, BY MASTER STEWEY ANGUS WILLOWSWAMP, HIS VERY LITTLE SELF
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's out in the driveway batting her eyelashes at the landscapers in a feeble attempt at old lady flirting. This in itself wouldn't be so bad (I mean, after all, a spinster's gotta do what a spinster's gotta do), but the visual is almost more than I can bear.
Rather than showering and dressing like a normal human person, my idiot mo-ther decided that a Hanes clearance bin t-shirt and a pair of eighteen year old sweatpants would be perfectly acceptable attire for "putzing" about the house today. Never mind the fact that it's a full 90 degrees outside. Nor am I completely thrown by the selection of the t-shirt and it's somewhat odd color. (Is it puce? Olive green? Why does it change colors so in the sunlight?)
No, what's bothering me is the fact that the old lady couldn't have taken an extra two minutes in the bath this morning to drag a razor across the vast expanse of whiteness that is her lower shins. I get the fact that a woman of her proportions doesn't necessarily have to (or want to) be bikini ready. (I mean, who in the world would want to see THAT particular hot mess anyway?) But don't you think it reasonable to assume that if your legs are going to stick out of the bottoms of your eighteen year old sweatpants, the least you can do is make sure that they are relatively stubble free?
Despite her horrifying appearance, the landscapers were bearing up OK and were chatting amiably with her right up to the point that she said (and I quote): "Man, Joan Crawford's got nothing on you fellas".
The resulting awkward silence prompted my mo-ther to explain that the reference is to the movie Mommie Dearest, in which Ms. Crawford (as she is portrayed by a heavily shoulder-padded and eye-browed Faye Dunaway), goes positively bat shit in the garden one evening and proceeds to hack everything to death while wearing a ball gown. This scene is one of Mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy's favorites, and every time either of them attempt any type of shrubbery trimming, they feel compelled to call one another and shout into the telephone "CHRISTINA! BRING ME THE AX!".
But I digress.....
While Mom's out there trying to get her peri-menopausal groove on, I decided to take matters into my own hands here inside Chez Spinster to spruce the joint up a bit. The Big White Wall of Nothingness was really starting to depress me with its tired Spring theme, and I noticed that several of the pieces in the collection were looking a little worse for wear. Additionally...the fake flowers in the form of spring blossoms were also looking a little shabby, so it was time for a change. Here's the result:
I'm sure, if pressed, I could find the names and designers of all of the pieces that are hanging here, but I assume that you will just want to know how I managed to reach high enough to get everything hung properly. Well, I'm happy to report that my lovely new friend Daphne gave me a little boost up onto her back, and she was able to stand perfectly still while I hammered away. You might remember that Daphne is my new little baby deer friend. She's fawn-colored, has enormous brown eyes, and she pees on everything in sight. Just like me. I'm auditioning her for the role of my personal assistant, and if we can work out the profit sharing and health care packages, you might see more and more of my creative endeavors here in the future.
For now, though, I'm just excited to see the look on Mom's face when she sees the drapes.
I hope that your Thursday is everything you wish it to be. Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
Rather than showering and dressing like a normal human person, my idiot mo-ther decided that a Hanes clearance bin t-shirt and a pair of eighteen year old sweatpants would be perfectly acceptable attire for "putzing" about the house today. Never mind the fact that it's a full 90 degrees outside. Nor am I completely thrown by the selection of the t-shirt and it's somewhat odd color. (Is it puce? Olive green? Why does it change colors so in the sunlight?)
No, what's bothering me is the fact that the old lady couldn't have taken an extra two minutes in the bath this morning to drag a razor across the vast expanse of whiteness that is her lower shins. I get the fact that a woman of her proportions doesn't necessarily have to (or want to) be bikini ready. (I mean, who in the world would want to see THAT particular hot mess anyway?) But don't you think it reasonable to assume that if your legs are going to stick out of the bottoms of your eighteen year old sweatpants, the least you can do is make sure that they are relatively stubble free?
Despite her horrifying appearance, the landscapers were bearing up OK and were chatting amiably with her right up to the point that she said (and I quote): "Man, Joan Crawford's got nothing on you fellas".
The resulting awkward silence prompted my mo-ther to explain that the reference is to the movie Mommie Dearest, in which Ms. Crawford (as she is portrayed by a heavily shoulder-padded and eye-browed Faye Dunaway), goes positively bat shit in the garden one evening and proceeds to hack everything to death while wearing a ball gown. This scene is one of Mo-ther and Aunt Chrissy's favorites, and every time either of them attempt any type of shrubbery trimming, they feel compelled to call one another and shout into the telephone "CHRISTINA! BRING ME THE AX!".
But I digress.....
While Mom's out there trying to get her peri-menopausal groove on, I decided to take matters into my own hands here inside Chez Spinster to spruce the joint up a bit. The Big White Wall of Nothingness was really starting to depress me with its tired Spring theme, and I noticed that several of the pieces in the collection were looking a little worse for wear. Additionally...the fake flowers in the form of spring blossoms were also looking a little shabby, so it was time for a change. Here's the result:
I'm sure, if pressed, I could find the names and designers of all of the pieces that are hanging here, but I assume that you will just want to know how I managed to reach high enough to get everything hung properly. Well, I'm happy to report that my lovely new friend Daphne gave me a little boost up onto her back, and she was able to stand perfectly still while I hammered away. You might remember that Daphne is my new little baby deer friend. She's fawn-colored, has enormous brown eyes, and she pees on everything in sight. Just like me. I'm auditioning her for the role of my personal assistant, and if we can work out the profit sharing and health care packages, you might see more and more of my creative endeavors here in the future.
For now, though, I'm just excited to see the look on Mom's face when she sees the drapes.
I hope that your Thursday is everything you wish it to be. Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend.
With love from your pal,
Stewey
Jul 10, 2012
FURTHER PONDERINGS FROM BEFUDDLETON COUNTY
As long as I live, I will never understand myself. As I explained to Aunt Chrissy moments ago, I have a keen propensity for fretting over something until I've worked myself right up into a full-on frenzy, and then something snaps and I do the thing that needs to be done. Typically, the thing that needs to be done takes all of seven minutes, and the end result is that I stand there in front of said thing wondering why I can't just rip the damn band-aid off already.
Case in point...the back patio. For the last three months I've fretted over the state of affairs out there, and have lamented the fact that it was starting to resemble a Port Authority restroom facility. For whatever reason, the birds and squirrels and chipmunks decided to party hardy and then leave whatever bodily excretions they thought appropriate all over the place. It. Was. Disgusting.
But rather than break out the hose and just swish it all away already, I chose to open the drapes each morning and fret over bird poop.
For three months.
I'm happy to report that one good scrubbing later, things are put back to rights again. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Stewey is thrilled that his Mommie Dearest was finally smart enough to figure out how to turn on a garden hose.
I've been stitching the background of the Big Red Sunflower. In real life, you can't see the bright white wall behind the canvas...I promise. I'm using a lovely black Silk and Ivory and decided to keep the background very simple so that the specialty stitches of the petals stand out a little more. For the border, I think I've come up with something really cool, but I want to futz with it a bit before revealing the idea. And yes, I'm still going to tart this up like a Vegas showgirl with some beads, but that will definitely be last.
What's new with you?
Jul 3, 2012
WEATHER -1 SPINSTER -0
My mom can't come to the blog right now. She's too busy stomping around the house muttering something about baby powder and kindergarten paste. I suspect that her cranky attitude has to do with the nasty bit of weather we're having, but I might also guess that she's now suffering the unfortunate side effects of being a rotund-ly sweaty woman who decided to powder her undercarriage after this morning's bath.
What can I say? Some people really shouldn't be left to their own devices, especially when they have the mental capacity of a dining room chair.
A fair bit of stitching went on last night despite the fact that Mo-ther tried to watch Aaron Sorkin's "The Newsroom" while doing so. You would think that she would remember that one must really sit up in the buggy to fully appreciate Mr. Sorkin's dense dialogue, but we're talking about a woman who also decided that she is capable of reading Thomas Pynchon.
Trust me. She isn't.
I do hope that you are all well and that you will be safe and careful during tomorrow's festivities if you are here in the good 'ol U.S. of A. If you're elsewhere, I hope that your Wednesday is everything you would wish it to be!
Until we meet again, I remain your devoted pal,
Stewey
What can I say? Some people really shouldn't be left to their own devices, especially when they have the mental capacity of a dining room chair.
A fair bit of stitching went on last night despite the fact that Mo-ther tried to watch Aaron Sorkin's "The Newsroom" while doing so. You would think that she would remember that one must really sit up in the buggy to fully appreciate Mr. Sorkin's dense dialogue, but we're talking about a woman who also decided that she is capable of reading Thomas Pynchon.
Trust me. She isn't.
I do hope that you are all well and that you will be safe and careful during tomorrow's festivities if you are here in the good 'ol U.S. of A. If you're elsewhere, I hope that your Wednesday is everything you would wish it to be!
Until we meet again, I remain your devoted pal,
Stewey
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)