Graceland! Graceland! Memphis, Tennessee.

One week after hanging out in America's heartland, I hopped on a plane and flew the other way, to Currer Bell's wedding in Memphis.

Aside from the four dozen still-itching bug bites that are all over my legs, it was an amazing weekend. I had a great time with one of my BFFs, watched her marry the man of her dreams, hung out with my favorite-ever peeps, saw another part of the Mississippi River, bought a pair jeans in a state with considerably lower sales tax, watched our friend/officiant hop a 10-foot tall wrought-iron fence in a skirt, and even managed to fit in a few hours of sight-seeing. Oh, and I got my picture taken with Elvis.

It was the etsy-est affair ever. Right down to the boutonnieres made from used paper maps of state that were significant to the couple. And it was totally sweet.

Here's pictures to prove it. Most are mine. A few others are pilfered from the oh-so-amazing Heidi Ryder, who in addition to being a friend of the couple was the wedding photographer. You should check her out, especially if you're in So.Cal., and make sure you look at her blog for great pictures of the Scary Dancing Elvis. (Incidentally, I know Elvis suits are expensive, but if you're going to shell out for one with tight white pants, wouldn't you maybe get them lined? Or wear flesh-colored undies?)

For the Rehearsal Dinner we set up TONS of white lights everywhere and then these paper lanterns.


These next three are from Heidi's collection and show the set up. The dark clouds cleared and the temperature even managed to cool off a bit. We spent hours before getting everything ready, and I think it paid off. It was simple and sophisticated. Oh, and the fooooood. We had AMAZING barbecue from Neely's and someone somewhere made magic banana pudding. I don't have a picture of it, because to stop and take a picture would mean I would have to interrupt eating it. And I had no plans to do that. Not even after my third serving.




Speaking of food _ you might notice a theme with me _ there were the BEST CUPCAKES EVER. There was also some great shrimp & grits. Man, oh man, do I miss Southern cooking. I made up for it when I was there. (Yes, my pants are paying the price.) Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fried okra, ribs, shrimp, grits, beer, banana pudding. Groan. I'm having food flash backs.)



There were so many great details everywhere you turned. I love these letters Currer Bell made. She says she needs post-wedding activities and promised to make me some. She won't tell me what they're going to spell, though. It's a surprise. I asked her not to send me a set that say "bitch." It'd be accurate, but not the best for decor purposes.



After the wedding and the day-after brunch, some friends and I finally had time to explore. What else to do in Memphis once you've eaten your way through the city? GRACELAND! And the National Civil Rights Museum. We went to Graceland first. While I'm glad I saw it, I'm not sure it was worth the $10 to park and $28 for admission. (Why much kitsch so expensive?) At least it yielded some great pictures.








The museum was, hands down, AMAZING. I could have spent hours there, but they were closing and I had a flight to catch. The final picture is of the Lorraine Motel sigh. (The motel's been turned into the museum.) It's where Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated and the room where he died has been preserved. It's creepy and powerful. They didn't allow pictures inside.

The heartland.

This weekend, I went to the country. Specifically, Wisconsin. It was beautiful. Bucolic. Tranquil. Rejuvenating. Restorative. I saw the Milky Way, sat around a camp fire with an amazing group of friends, and on more than one occassion questioned why I live in the city and whether I'll one day move to some place like this. A place like this would be amazing.

What was it like, you ask? Like a little slice of rolling hills-and-pastures heaven.



This was the message of the weekend:



I saw animals. Have I mentioned I L-O-V-E animals? I heart all things great and small. Except bugs. I don't like bugs. Or really any reptile. So maybe I just love all things mammalian and cute. And this goat totally qualifies, don't you think? I wanted to take her home with me. I would have named her Peaches. Even if she's a boy goat. I didn't get close enough to check if she was a she-goat or a he-goat.



We went apple picking, the most quintessential fall activity. The apples were great -- crisp, and tart and oh-so-delicious. I might have had a little apple drool going on. Still, they couldn't hold a candle the Black Twig apples my dad and I picked together every fall at an out-of-the-way orchard in Delaware. It was our favorite activity. Sometimes he surprises me and still mails me a bushel. Isn't he the sweetest Dad EVER?



The apples were everywhere. We climbed the trees, even though they told us not too. And we might have sampled one or two straight off the limb. We also took a picture of our friend Eve handing our friend Adam an apple. He handed her a leafy branch. We thought it was hysterical. They were less amused. But they're good sports.



Walking in the rows of apples, we found this old tractor. Apparently, it's named Oliver. Hi, Oliver.



I don't know if I'd call Oliver "standard." But someone did.



Here's Oliver in black and white. Regal, huh?



And the leaves. Oh, the leaves! They just made you want to grab a big crunchy pile and throw them at someone, and roll around in them, and smell fireplaces and listen for the cheer of high school football games. They make me want to have spiced cider and snuggle on a hay ride.



I love fall. It's my favorite season.



Some people prefer spring because everything is new and just waking up. I think that's fine. But I love fall because fall is all about change and growth. It's vibrant and vivid. It's about reassessing and collecting yourself for the challenges of winter. It's the calm before the storm. It reminds us that we're still learning and growing and changing and that we're different this year than we were last year. But we're still the same, too. We're red and brown and gold and orange. We're brilliant. We're dynamic. We're in transition.

My favorite sewing things.

Outside of my sewing machine and my iron, the two things I probably use the most when I'm sewing are my pin cushion and my seam ripper.

My pin cushion was a gift from the ever fantastic Modern Gal, who bought it from an Etsy artist for me and sent it to me last Christmas.



I love that it's a twist on the traditional tomato thingy and has some Noodles-like flair. And since it was custom made (I was confused when she e-mailed me asked me to measure my left wrist.) it stays on my arm perfectly _ it doesn't cut off the circulation, or twist around so the pins are upside down.


The other item that I simply can't live without is my seam ripper. For you non-sewers, a seam ripper is, well, exactly what it sounds like. And if you, uh, screw things up enough (cough, cough) you're going to spend a lot of quality time ripping out stitches. I have a few seam rippers, but this is by far my favorite and the one that gets the most use. Outside of the fact that it fits so nicely in my hand, I adore that it belonged to my great aunt whose sewing box I inherited after she died years ago.


My great aunt and I weren't very close, something I really regret now that I'm learning about her. She had amazingly talented hands, knitting sweaters my parents still wear, crocheting afghans and sewing up a storm. (Family lore has it that after she had a mastectomy, she didn't want to buy any fancy mastectomy bras, whether because of the cost or modesty issues. So she simply made her own. I think that must explain the old elastic I found in the bottom of her sewing box.)


I love how well-used but loved her sewing items were when I finally took them back to Chicago last year. Just look at that seam ripper. Maybe my talent for botching seams, or sewing pieces upside down (or, backward) is inherited.


Who knows. But I love knowing that she might be gone, we're still connected by something as simple as a turquoise seam ripper.

I have a learning curve! (Who knew?)

(Eds: Poodles ... you're barred from this post since it relates to your baby shower gift.)

I've never appliqued before. And this Charm quilt requires a shit-ton of applique work. Why does your stuff have to be some freakin' cumbersome-yet-cute Amy Butler????

Since the shower is Nov. 7, and I need to have it quilted and bound in time, I need to finish the applique this week. That explains why I spent a lot of time tonight doing this:


I got some advice on how to applique from the always awesome peeps at Quiltology _ namely to press the bejesus out of the fabric as you turn it under. Since I'm appliqueing curves, I cut little triangles out of the curves so it'd lay smoothly.

This was my first attempt.

Uh, not pretty. Whether my feed dogs weren't working properly or I was a dumbass, I'm not sure. But, I expect to have some quality time with the seam ripper later.

Still, here's the promising thing. Check out the fifth one I did. Much better, don't you think???

I am not a stupid girl. I'm just prone to idiocy.

I have bad luck with my condo. Like, baaaad luck.

Last summer there was the decomposing corpse of my dead upstairs neighbor that smelled the place up for weeks. (Not to mention the A+ disinfecting work done in the unit, which is a story for another time.) Last winter is was a snafu with the gas company that resulted in me not having heat until December. In CHICAGO.

This year, it's my electricity.

I came home yesterday to find that half the condo was in the dark. Unfortunately, it was the half that had all of my appliances. No fridge. No stove. No washing machine. No sewing machine (cry.) No cable, TV, nothing. I went and checked out the circuit breaker, flipped the switches back and forth and .... nada. (Oooh, this is fun I thought. I can be half Amish for the night.)

Rock on.

So this morning being half Amish got old. After a frantic call and e-mail with the management company, I started calling electricians.

Most of the conversations went something like this:

Me: I can't figure out why half my electrical sockets won't work. There was some power outage yesterday and I tried using the breaker box and I just can't get it to turn back on. I think something might be fried inside.

Them: Uh, did you, like, try flipping the breaker?

Me: Yes.

Them: So you actually touched each of the switches and moved them back and forth?

Me: OMG! Are you listening to me!? I'm not a moron. (This reminds of conversations with tech support when you say your computer is misbehaving and they asked you if you rebooted it. Uh, no. I hadn't thought about that!!!)

Anyway, so I wind up getting an electrician to come out, because at $100 for a house call plus parts, he's the best deal I can find. He comes over. We go downstairs. He looks at the box and says, uh, your power's been turned off.

And then I'm like, yeeeeessss. This is why you're here. I don't know why the power is off.

And he responds, no, it's actually BEEN turned off. See this tag? It means the power company came and SHUT. IT. OFF.

At which point, I'm just blown away. I live in a condo building. I don't pay any electrical bill. It's part of my condo fees. And also, if they turned off my power, why are my lights and my ceiling fan still working?

So he busts out his screw driver, yanks off the lock from the utility company, puts it back on and leaves 5 minutes later with my $100 check.

Now I'm pretty much freaking out. When I bought my place two years ago, I swore someone said electricity was included in my ridiculously high condo fees. I busted out the paperwork and see reference to air conditioning being included. Then it starts to sink in.

Either because of misinformation or misunderstanding, I was supposed to open an electric account when the old owner closed hers. I never did. For two years -- TWO YEARS -- I've been getting electricity without knowing I was supposed to pay for it.

Then I lost it and just total meltdown crying fit on the phone with my dad. (Yeah, yeah. I know. Cliche. Whatever.) I don't want to steal. But I'm terrified of what this bill is going to be like when I get it. It was a completely innocent mistake. Should I have figured it out before hand? OMG. OMG. OMG.

So I call the power company and try to explain the situation to them. I say that I know they probably get a lot of far-out sob stories. And this is a far-out sob story, but unlike the slackers who are trying to get out something, this one is ACTUALLY true. They're sorta baffled themselves. So I set up an account for my unit, give them the date I moved in, and they back date it to me.

Now I have to wait until the next meter reading to figure out what the bill will be. So, I'm terrified about the fact that there will be commas in this bill. And that there will be big numbers BEFORE the comma. And I'm praying they have a payment plan.

Also, I'm now considering writing a book called "Confessions of an Idiot Homeowner."

Sigh. FML.

An existential crisis.

A couple of years ago, my friend Lido went on date with a graphic designer. A photographer and all-around Fabulous Renaissance Man, Lido asked her a question: "What's your favorite font?"

I love this question. (And, incidentally, I love Lido for asking it. Also, I love the girl he's currently dating who I'm sure has a much better font preference than this other girl ever did!) I think people who can answer the font question right away are my people. They're artsy, but care about presentation. They see themselves in their work. They love text and words and conveying messages. They know a font is more than a font. It's about what giving the world a little tiny glimpse of you.

I used to say my favorite font was Garamond, because it perfectly conveyed who I was. Classic and sophisticated, with just enough flair to show that it was anything but average.

I used to say this.

These days, I don't have a font any more. There's probably a ton of fodder for someone who bills at $120/hr about why that might be. But I don't think Garamond works for me these days, at least as a description of the person I am today.

I think it's boring. Dowdy. Too average. Too bland. And a serif font? Ugh. Gag. Of course, that shouldn't be interpreted to mean that I think I'm un-boring, un-dowdy, un-average, or un-bland. I don't really know what I am. Back then, I was always wearing pearls and downing Chardonnay. These days, I'm more likely to be found in yoga pants than pearls. There's other changes too, changes I probably don't need to _ and probably shouldn't _ get into here. But suffice it to say, the older I get the more I realize that I'm a work in perpetual progress.

But what matters is that I'm stuck with this existential typographical crisis, which probably has a lot more to do with myself and my place in the world than what my words look like when I'm banging away on the computer.

I've been killing time on DaFont, a great collection of something close to 10,000 different fonts. Of course, I'm not tech literate enough to figure out how to import these fonts into Word. (I think that maybe they're more for Illustrator/Photoshop type things.)

So, I'm stuck. I feel like one day it will hit me. I'll get out of the fog and I'll find my font. It will fit me again and I'll feel like we belong. And then I'll feel better about the person I am today, instead of the person that I was. Am I crazy? I mean, more than usual.

So tell me, peeps, do you have a favorite font? And most importantly, why did you pick it? And what do you think it says about you?

Half a charm and a mission.

Eds: If your name is Kathleen (aka: Poodles) and you are a pregnant pal of mine living in Jackson, Miss., you are barred from reading this blog post. That is unless you WANT to feel like the kid who snuck a peak at all their presents before Christmas and then had the WORST SANTA VISIT EVER. Understood?

Moons and moons and moons ago, I wanted to try my hand at Amy Butler's "Charm" quilt. I got distracted, made other quilts, lent my sewing machine to a friend for weeks at a time so she could get ready for her wedding and just sort of forgot about the plan.

And then, my dear friend Kathleen got knocked up. While I've said, children freak me the hell out, I love her and her husband all the way down to the bottom of my cold, black heart. So I decided to help throw her a baby shower. (I'm also helping with a kick-ass nursery decorating project. )

But I wanted to do something else for my peeps and their expanding family, something a little more me. I toyed with buying a great print on Etsy, like this one. Or this one.

And then I decided to sew baby Josie a charm quilt (scroll down to the bottom to see it. Or just look at the pic on the top of this page.) The hitch, of course, being that the thing that makes this quilt so damn cool is the applique on the top. And uh, I don't know how to applique. But whatever, I'm a smart girl. (I'm also hoping the divas down at my favorite quilting store will be kind enough to walk me through how to do this.)

I spent some time this weekend raiding my stash and whipped up the main part of the quilt on Saturday.


Here's some pretend artsy views:



I've picked a bunch of fabric to do the applique "footballs." Although I know I won't need this much. I'm going to play around to see what works best.


I've still got a lot of work ahead of me, but I love what I've got so far. I'm already thinking about how to finish this one off. I'm thinking instead of a pieced back, maybe some pretty and soft pale yellow minky.

So crafty peeps and F.O.K. (Friends of Kathleen) what do you think? Any tips, instruction, handholding, words of advice about doing applique? I'm all ears.

And Poodles, if you kept reading, your ass is grass. :-)

Hispters! Ahoy!

Sure, I mock the skinny-pants-wearing-deliberately-ironic-with-80s-hair-and-tattoos set. But, when it comes to crafty things, the hipsters are my people.

In a quilting world filled with too much calico, cheesy prints like this, and other assorted shiver-enducing grossness adored by beige-wearing old ladies, the Renegade Craft Fair is like HEAVEN. Skinny pants, deliberately ironic, 80s-hair HEAVEN.

I always find cute stuff I love that inevitably fuels my letterpress obsession along with great kitsch. Even better, I always leave inspired. Of course, I'm lucky because there's a Renegade Handmade shop in town (think Etsy, but in person.) Although, the store charges a hefty commission, so the prices tend to be really expensive.

Still, I'm totally psyched for this year's show. And seriously hoping it doesn't pour like it did last year. Or melt me like it did the year before that.

Anyone here going?

Yay indie artists! May they live long. And prosper.