In which I royally piss off the universe.

It was long, draining and downright shitty day work today. On the bus ride home, which, btw, dropped me off at my house roughly 13 hours after I left in the morning, I decided to turn the shittasticness into sparkle and bake cookies for my coworkers and spend the night working on baby quilts for my pregger girl friends.

What a dumb idea that was.

I probably should have realized the universe was against me when I saw that I had only 3/4 of a cup of flour. (How the HELL did that happen? I'm a self-professed compulsive baker.) Luckily, I had some extra whole wheat flour lying around, which OMG would make my cookies HEALTHY! I started making my modified Toll House recipe and then ... DAMMIT, I have one tiny, hard-as-nails chunk of brown sugar.

This of course, is not the end of the world. I mean, any reasonable person would have put on her boots (Oops, left them at work), her coat, and scarf and gloves and hat and trudged to the damn store. But have I mentioned it's cold as balls here? And snowing? And OMG I WANT COOKIES NOW.

Since by this point I want nothing more than to eat my weight in cookie dough as I try to shed a bad day, I keep going. I try softening the brown sugar. It doesn't want to cooperate. It gets sorta less rock like and I put it in mixer. And then I make the critical mistake of trying to mash up the chunks while the beater thingies are beating.

Note to self. It's best to do this step when the mixer isn't ACTIVELY mixing. Because this is the end result of that effort.


What the hell is that, you ask? Why, it's a completely mangled and bent attachment to my standup mixer. Fucking A....

So now, let's recap:
_ Long day.
_ Bad day.
_ Critical ingredient shortage.
_ Broken forever mixer.
_ Shitty-tasting cookies thanks to ingredients shortage (who the HELL wants whole wheat cookies anyway? What? Should I serve them with a side of tofu and wheatgrass? Phhsaw.)
_ And one very grumpy Noodles.

Epic effing fail.

P.S. After this series of events, there's no way in hell I'm letting my fingers near a razor-sharp rotary cutter.

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.

March can bite me.

In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? Fat freakin' chance.

Want visual proof? Here's my neighbor's gate yesterday morning.


This shot was taken about 30 seconds before I discovered that not one, but two of my boots had sprung leaks. Of course, I'm karmicly challenged when it comes to snow gear, so, I spent the day with parading around in my caribou-emblazoned purple-and-blue socks trying to get my feet to dry between errands.

Remember growing up how your mom always said to wear good underwear so in case you were in an accident and you had to go to the hospital, you wouldn't be embarrassed? (Please, please, please tell me this was a universal Mom Lesson. If not, a certain someone and I are going to have a twee chat.) Well, it turns out that the same applies to ugly socks during snow/rain. Because I really LOVED walking around the hallways of the Old Town School of Folk Music in my socks featuring mammals of the Alaskan wilderness. (Also, come to think of it, you never know when you'll *meet* someone, so that alone is enough reason to banish the granny panties forever.)

The snow wasn't that bad _ even if it was heavy and wet. All told, we got about 3 inches here in the city. Totally manageable and at least it's _ hopefully _ the last snow of the season. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because I refuse to buy another set of boots. At least for the time being.

Lah dee dah.

Once, when I studied abroad, I went through a really and truly horribly 48 hours when I had nothing by the chorus of Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" in my head. Forty-eight long, long, painful hours. I don't care how hot Eddie Vedder is, that's about 44 hours too long for that song. (True story: an ex once said Vedder was the only dude he'd ever consider sleeping with. Since the chances of that are up there with the chances that I'll be a size 4, I did not feel threatened.)

I share because, well, I always share. And because I thought I'd illuminate how prone I am to brain worm songs. Because of this, my desk mate and I absolutely love to play the obnoxious song game. Mainly, this consists of me saying, "Hey Karen! Guess what song I have in my head?" before she gives me the death glare and puts her hands over her ears. Since I am oh-so-mature, I will often start humming the chorus, she shrieks and then, well, all bets are off because she'll launch a counter attack.

(For the record, there are few songs more obnoxious than Kelis' "Milkshake." "Damn right, it's better than yours!" AHHHHH. And, once, a few months ago, my exceptionally gay hairdresser turned to me mid foil and said "Damn girl, I bet your milk shake DOES bring all the boys to the yard." )

So, needless to say, when someone else in the office started playing Dan Fogelberg's "Leader of the Band" this afternoon, I knew I was totally, completely and 100 percent screwed.



Why they were discussing Fogelberg, who I insisted on calling Dan Fogenfloogie, is beyond me. Although, according to the all-knowing Wikipedia, he was from Peoria. My ears happened to perk up at the wrong time. Which explains why I am now in my jammies, trying to escape the 1981 song.

Le sigh indeed.

Winter? Or season of frosty discontent?

Two weeks ago, I cracked.

I had my annual existential crisis that is brought on, like clockwork, by the seriously horrible, dismal, never-ending days of wet, cold, dreary, blustery, icy, frozen, hurts-to-breathe cold winter.

Put another: Winter can suck it.

But, instead of taking my own advice, I have instead chosen to spend the past two weeks wallowing and avoiding the world, which, for the record, is one of the many things I am skilled at.

Consequently, my kitchen is filled with crusty wine glasses and dishes, dirty socks are everywhere except the sock drawer, I have spent whole weekends without leaving the house for much other than church and I have filled my Facebook page with bitchy status updates. ("Noodles thinks you might be a nice person, but is going to assume that you are a puppy-eating psychopath since you didn't bother to shovel and de-ice your sidewalk. Asshole.")

But even moping gets old. Which is kind of where I am now. (Did you know you can be bored with being bummed? I didn't.) Except now, I'm sick of snow and ice and three-digit gas bills and picking rock salt out of my carpets while surrounded by a stacked pile of needs-to-be-washed jammies and a dog who has taken to carrying a Scrabble tile holder around the house like it's her new bff.

Who wants to make me a stiff fruity drink served with an umbrella?

Alive and well in the not-too-cold tundra.

Well, howdy. Why, yes. I am in fact alive! Barely, thanks to a Mutant Hell Virus that decided I didn't need my intestines or any of the stuff in them and in fact, it all needed to get out of my body OMG, RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

Hell really must involve uncontrollable vomiting while sitting (yes, sitting) on a toilet. I'm sure you get the picture.

In retrospect, the bout of illness sucked a big one. But, I'm one of those annoying glass-half-full kind of girls. So, thanks to MHV I managed to drop 7 pounds. Admittedly, in 24 hours. But whatever. Beggars cannot, as they say, be choosers. I will take what I can on my quest to have pants fit again.

But, I digress. There's much more important things to say.

Like the fact that OMFG it's above freezing in Chicago. SERIOUSLY above freezing. (Weather.com widget says it's 44 right now. BAM!) If it stays this way tomorrow, I may very well strip off every article of winter clothing (including my oh-so-toasty base layer) and run around buck-ass naked in pure excited-for-spring celebration. I won't, of course, actually do this. Because, a) I am am not into getting arrested and b) I do not wind to blind any innocent bystanders. But I sure as shit will think about when I take the mutt for a romp in the sure-to-be-muddy park, or when I put air into my bike tires and run errands on my little two-wheeled baby for the first time in months.

Of course, it's going to get fucking frigid again soon, even if is going to be 53 degrees on Saturday. And I will, of course, cry. But I cannot, cannot, cannot WAIT to enjoy it.

Ice, Ice Baby

Perhaps you heard about the cold snap we in the Midwest (and really, everywhere, except you assholes in Florida and Southern California) suffered through in the past week. Here in Chicago, the windchill was around -40 for several days. Today, it's 13 and sunny, which makes it feel like spring break in Cabo by comparison.

But, just because I felt compelled to walk around outside without long johns and an extra layer of wool, it's still cold and icy. Like, red-state-on-Nov. 5 icy. Especially along the side of my building, where, by order of The Condo Board, all pet owners must take their mutts out for walks.

I've discussed my issues staying upright on ice at length, but suffice it to say that I risked life and limb to share these pictures with you.






This, btw, is one of the rain gutters along the side of my building. The ice coating goes up all four stories.



Ice gutter close up:


Who wants to fly me to the Bahamas for a few days!?

A cautionary tale. Or, why wine and taxes don't mix.

I am poor.

Ok. Not food-stamps-poor. But poor enough where my checking account mystifyingly reaches the single digits in the day before pay day.

So, because of this, I'm waaaaaaay psyched about my forth-coming tax refund. Woot to the refund! (Yes, yes, I know all you smart people say I should just adjust my withholdings, otherwise I'm giving the government an interest-free loan. But whatever. I enjoy, nay, heart, the refund.)

So last week, I had a glass (ok, fine ... a bottle) of wine and set out to figure out my refund. Of course, since TaxCut (my trusty tax software for the past three years) got all high-tech this year, I couldn't use it since my poor iBook's operating system is so old.

No problem, I thought. Millions of people do taxes by hand. How hard can it be?

I printed the forms. Downloaded the instruction book. Sharpened a pencil. Turned up the music and ...

OMG! OMG! OMG!

I'm getting an $11,000 refund! Hallelujah! Sweet Jesus! The tax gods have smiled on me! That's five whole digits back!!

I continue to swig chardonnay while doing a pajamified version of my happy dance around the condo. I mean, I know they said homeownership comes with great tax benefits, but holy shit! $11,000!?!?

This means I can pay off my credit card bill! And seed that emergency fund that I know I should have! And afford a plane ticket to San Francisco! And maybe splurge on a massage or something!

I'm freakin' ecstatic. Even The Mutt seems caught up in my enthusiasm, throwing her tennis ball at me. And running around in happy dog circles.

But, hum. Wait a minute.

$11,000? Really? That seems, well ... wrong. That's like getting all of my federal taxes back. And, like, that doesn't happen. At least, not to working professionals.

My refund high and I are beginning to crash. Hard.

Maybe I'll get an accountant. Maybe I'll burn some kind of herb as an offering to the tax gods. Maybe I'll....

Fuck.

It's daytime. I'm sober. And I have TurboTax. The math seems less ... magical.

I am NOT getting an $11,000 refund. I am not getting half that. I am not getting a quarter of that. I'm getting ... a lot less.

Sigh.

Where's my wine?

Graceful, I am not. Or, why winter can suck it.

Regardless of whether I completely change my tune in the dead-still heat of summer and get all wistful for autumn and crisp air (sweaters! yay!) and shit like that, let me go on record as say this: WINTER CAN BITE MY ASS.

Seriously.

Winter in Chicago is like a special breed of sadistic, pain-enducing, alcohol-swilling, blanket-layering, extremity-numbing cold. (I like to refer to this as bitch-ass cold.)

I know it's not Alaska and there are other places with latitudes worse than mine where it sucks even more. But that does not keep me from frequently (and with an expert amount of only child finesse) complaining to all my friends who live in the practically tropical climates of the Mid-Atlantic and deep South.

In fact, my complaints have become so standard that we have an unspoken deal. I am given unfettered complaining rights from roughly October until mid- to late-April. And then, it's their turn. I have to shut up and listen to the freakishly hot and humid stories of life in Tennessee, Georgia, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama, just to name a few. I think it's a fair trade.

In addition to cold-weather bragging rights, Chicago's winter also involves learning to navigate the slip-and-slide that is virtually any flat surface within a day of snowfall. Sure, shoveling sidewalks is required by law. Does it happen? Riiiight.

Twelve hours after flakes fall, unshoveled sidewalks start to get slick. Twelve more and shoveling is almost impossible after all the trampling. Twenty-four more and you may as well strap skates to the soles of your shoes to try to make it to the bus stop without a concussion.

This makes for particularly dangerous walking when you're someone like me, who might be charitably described as gracefully challenged. (I have on more than one occasion been called a walking bruise. Also, a gazelle. By, um, my mother. Seriously, there was the Ass-Over-Elbows Escalator Fall of 2006 that almost required an ambulance; the Gushing Mountain Bike Injury the summer before that really should have involved stitches. There's a list.)


Anyway, this is a long-winded complaint that leads to this:



That's my knee cap after a rather stunning fall this morning on the bus. Ice-caked shoes and a snow-soaked floor are not a good combo and I bit it. Hard. Making matters worse, the bus had barely started to pull away from my stop. I really should have just gotten off at the next stop and hobbled the hell home to mope in the comfort of my bed.

But noooooo.

Fast forward 45 minute to me, grateful to have shaved in the last millennium, sitting at my desk with with my jeans and long-johns rolled up while icing my bare leg. Classy.

Is it spring yet?

An open letter to my pants. Or, why I'm back on Weight Watchers.

Dear Pants,

Hi! Remember me?

I'm the girl who was down-right ecstatic when I bought you. You were so many sizes smaller than my Before-Pants. (Remember Before? It was when someone took those horrible pictures and Photoshopped me to look extra rotund? Bastards.) You were flattering. And hugged my curves in just the right places. You came from real-people stores, not that Lane Bryant that had been keeping me from nakedness for so many years.

I loved you! Other people loved you! They said you made my ass look hot. Mainly, you were lovely and fantastic.

But, see, now you're not.

In fact, you're pretty much decidedly UNLOVELY. UNFANTASTIC.

You look weird. You strain. You cause unseemly bulges. You make me take deep breaths before I hop up and down to zip you up. (And really, let's not forget about the time that I had to lie on the bed and say a quick prayer before yanking up that zipper.)

WTF? Com'n. I thought we were all BFFy. Why do you have to be this way?

Now, Stacy and Clinton would tell me to dress for the body I have, not for the body I want to have. And there's some sense to that. After all, we've all seen those great outfits they put together for the stubbornly poor dressers.

But I won't admit defeat. And, really, you guys are entirely too cute to say good bye to.

So, this isn't really a good bye. It's a see-you-soon type thing.

That's right, dear pants. (And, Ann Taylor. And Banana Republic. And The Gap. And, well, everywhere else.) Just like The Terminator before me: I'll be back.

See you in a few.

Love,
Noodles

Argh! Help a girl out.

alkdf;alskdjf;alkdsjf;adsfjk.

I hate binding. Hate, HATE, HATE binding.

I took a two hour class on doing it and I'm totally list. Sure, I get the whole cutting the fabric on a 45 degree angle. I know how to piece each strip together so I have enough to go around the quilt. And I know how to press the strips in half lengthywise. But once there, I'm totally freaking screwed.

I don't get the invisible whip stitch. I tried doing it on a sewing machine. Still, it all looks like shit. Too embarassing to even post pictures.

So com'n crafty girls. Help me figure this out.

Running, running, runnning out of time.

I'm writing this while in the midst of one of my patented Noodles Panic Spirals.

Why? Because it's Dec. 4, but may as well be Jan. 4. (Don't get me started on my issues with the start of 2009. Too much leftover goals from 2008!)

Here's the deal.

I'm type A. Like, REALLY Type A. Like, lists and spreadsheets make me happy. Surprises and I don't get along. (Don't get me wrong, I'm totally down with being a go-with-the-flow girl. But I'm already told my best friends that should I eventually get married, they should all expected three ring binders with tabbed dividers to help them keep track of details.)

But tonight is my last night of down time until well after Christmas. And that's only because I was so tired from work today that I promptly collapsed after getting home and slept through the start of the CD release concert I was supposed to attend.

My to-do list for Friday and the weekend so far includes 17 points. 17! And that was just what I remembered.

I love the holidays and all that it stands for. It's such a special time and I want to always be so absolutely perfect. But I don't feel like I have the time to stop and smell the chestnuts (snicker. I'm funny.) But instead, I'm rushing around cleaning, planning, ordering, organizing, figuring out how to keep The Mom and The Dad entertained during their lengthy visit to Chicago, making sure I don't have white trash-looking roots for NEXT weekend's trip back to Maryland to celebrate the grandma's birthday. That's just the personal stuff. There's mega things to be done at work, the announcement of mini professional evaluations that must be completed by next Friday...

Oh wait. I just thought of No. 18. (Complete project for Holiday Gift Swap.)

Le sigh. Screw that. Le groan!

It just seems so overwhelming.

How do you guys handle it?

It just seems so entirely easy to get wrapped up in the rush and miss the amazingly good stuff that goes on just once a year.

One chilly opus from one angry girl.

Dear (Redacted name of utility company),

You suck.

I'm not normally one for public rants, tirades and other hysterics. But because of the hell you've put me through for the past four weeks, I'm willing to make an exception. Plus, I'm really, really cold.

Why?

Because it's Chicago. In November. It snowed yesterday. And my bedroom has no heat.

According to your various customer service representatives (So far, I believe I've spoken to at least eight of them. Lovely people, really. Especially the one who told me I should just lie. But more on that later.) this doesn't qualify as a gas emergency since I have gas to cook, just not to heat half of my living space. So I have to keep calling to try to get someone to fix the problem. They may not be able to come for another month. That's right. A month. Are you beginning to understand the source of my rage?

But let me back up, since it seems like you guys need help understanding the problem.

I became a homeowner last year. My lovely (but breadbox-sized) space used to be two even SMALLER apartments with two different apartment numbers that were converted years ago into one slightly larger condo unit. But no one seemed to have told you that. Or you just didn't care. But for whatever reason, there are two separate gas lines and two separate gas meters that feed my unit, one of which is labeled as feeding my condo and the other which goes an apartment that actually no longer exists.

So when I moved in, I gave you my address and apartment number, and you set me up. And I paid my bill. On time. In full. Every month. And we were pals.

You can imagine my surprise when I went to turn my heat this fall and only get cold air. I call my HVAC company, and re-upped a $500 annual service contract for my two furnaces. The nice technician came out to inspect the damage and discovers that the gas meter that feeds the no-longer-in-existence-apartment-that's-really-just-my-bedroom has some kind of lock on it. Looks like you turned it off. But no one told me, since the account I use and pay for and unbeknownst to me just supplies gas to my livingroom and kitchen is just peachy.

However, it turns out that getting the gas turned back on is apparently a really big, damn problem. Each time I call, someone tells me something different. The emergency number said I'm not an emergency. The customer service line told me to call the emergency line, which referred me back to them. Then the customer service line told me to just lie and say that I don't have any gas, to ensure a visit that day by a technician. I've got problems with fibbing, especially when I find out that if it's not a true emergency and someone is dispatched, I get charged a hefty fee for every half hour someone is on my property. I'm just a single girl who writes for a living. I'm not so much with the cash, so this doesn't work. Oh yeah, and then there was the time when I called and I got stuck on some kind of hold only to get transferred to an attendant at 7:01 p.m. Unfortunately, your customer service line closed at 7. D'oh.

I talk calmly. I yell. I cry. Nothing works. So I do what every feminist bone in my body rejects and turn the problem over to the boy. He works his magic and I'm told that I have to apply to open a separate account and they'll send me the application in the mail. That would have been great if the envelope you sent me actually included an application and not just a cover letter telling me to fax it back to you.

So I called again today and talked to someone else who assured me there's no way I or any of my neighbors could pay our heating bills because the balance is so low each month and that it must be paid by the condo association. Wrong again. She also explains it's impossible for there to be two gas lines going to one condo unit and that I can't have to different gas accounts _ even if I want them. But she offers to make an appointment for one of their technicans to come look at the situation. On Dec. 17.

The tears start welling.

But if there's anything I've learned in this, it's that you've got no consistency. So I try one more time. And apparently, this time I've got some kind of good karma. Or, I just beat the system by pressing "2" to set up a new account where I reach a nice, helpful, speaks-in-complete-sentences girl who tells me that if I just write a cover letter explaining this situation and fax it along with my driver's license and copy of a closing document that shows when I took ownership, I'll be able to get the ball rolling.

Of course, then it will take at least three days for them to review it before they can schedule someone to come over and turn it on. And that wait might be a week. That means we're at least a week and a half way from heat. But it's a hell of a lot closer than Dec. 17.

Since I'm not a troll, I told this wonderful lady how great and helpful she was compared to her less-than-desirable co-workers. But that doesn't erase the fact that you still suck. And my toes are getting kind of numb.

Love,
Noodles.

The joys of home ownership.

Halloween isn't officially here yet, but we Chicagoans have already busted out our gloves, scarves and in some cases hats.

Now, given my whole addiction to coats (and my belief that my fall wardrobe is by far my best) I'm usually down with this lovely season change. Even if you can't help but avoid that horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach that's a reminder that the total, unadulterated shittness that is Chicago winter is just around the corner.

But my autumnal funfest ground to an unhappy and unexpected halt on Tuesday when I broke my never-enforced rule of not turning heat on before November.

I came home from work after a particularly long and arduous day wanting nothing more than to pile on jammies, blast the heat, down a Benadryl, curl up under the covers and sleep away the previous 24 hours. My plan worked splendidly until I tried to turn on the furnace that heats my bedroom. (My octogenarian condo unit has two gas furnaces.) There was all kinds of air blowing. The issue was that none of it was hot. Or warm. Or tepid. In fact, it was down right cold. I let it run for an hour before I figured out I was just making myself colder and colder and threw in the towel (blanket?) and went to bed.

The lovely (and painfully expensive) HVAC man is coming tomorrow morning. Good thing I got paid today.

Silly blogger.

Sorry for being delinquent in my posting lately, but I've been wrestling with the HTML on the blog. For reasons that I can't quite figure out, my sidebar _ the lovely bit o' info on the right of the screen _ has decided it'd much rather hang out at the bottom of my page.

Not sure what gives, but it's annoying as hell.

Got any suggestions?

Me. Today.

Screw you, errata

Oh, I thought looking at the pattern. How cute is this? So what if the fabric choice is a little questionable and looks like it was designed to match Big Bird? I'll just find stuff that's cuter.

At least 10 hours of cutting, sewing and piecing later, I was ready to put on the borders. Until I realized the problem. The pattern? The one that explained exactly how much of each fabric to cut? Well, looks like some the editors at Quilts & More forgot to do their math. That explains why my long rectangular piece was cut to 19.5
inches, not 20.

MATH PEOPLE. It's not too freakin' hard to do. (And yes, lesson learned on my part about checking patterns for errors.)










This is what the sides looked like, thanks to the bad math in the pattern. It took me three hours to rip out the seams.
Grumble. I want my money back.