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.

Ack. Gag. Shower.

Is there anything more lame than a baby shower? (Except maybe a blatantly gift-grubbing-instead-of-celebrating-the-couple bridal shower?) I mean, oooh, smelly diaper games! Let's wrap toilet paper around the mom-to-be's belly. Guess how many (insert candy here) are in the bottle? Mawhahahaha.

I say this because as of about 20 minutes ago, my friend Ginny and I are currently PLANNING a baby shower. Of course, neither of us are married. Or have children. Or, uh, for the most part, like children. But we love our friend Kathleen and are dedicated to the cause of planning a decidedly non-sucky soiree. We want it to have, as Ginny says, "elegance with an edge."

This leads me to several new-found bits of wisdom: No matter what terms you Google, whether it's "hip baby shower," "chic baby shower," "modern baby shower," even, cringe, "hipster baby shower" ... THEY ALL PRODUCE LAME RESULTS. (Full disclosure, I searched "anti-baby-shower" and got exactly one promising hit.)

Seriously. I know I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Women are smart. And dynamic. And funny. And creative. And we get together to try to figure out that "erpcaiif" is really just a jumbled-up version of "pacifier" or guess what the melted candy bar is that we stuck in a diaper??? REALLY!?

Hostess etiquette my ass.

So, now I'm stumped on what exactly we should be doing. Ginny, the epicurean, is going to deal with food. I'm in charge of activities. (Incidently, we're stilling working on important thing, such as dates. Locations. Etc.) I was thinking of creating snarky/saucy madlibs? I know there's the whole decorate-a-onesy thing. Maybe having everyone offer some words-of-wisdom for the new mom? Something involving children's literature? Maybe a game of "Celebrity Baby or Just a Noun?" (Ahem: Apple. Trick question, it's both.)

I don't know. And Google won't help. That's why I need you. Save me. Save us. Save the shower.

Muttastic.

Because I know you all need some extra Macy Mutt in your life... Who doesn't?

Brrrrr. It's cool in here.

It's fall here in Chicago, what with it being in the 40s all of a sudden at night. This, incidently, seriously makes me want to have a sidebar with Mother Nature to ask her WTF is going on. I mean, I love fall. Don't get me wrong. It's by far my best wardrobe season. But it's AUGUST. At least for another 24+ hours. Anyway, soap box over.

Since it's been extra chilly at night, I've been able to engage in one of my favorite fall activities (outside of apple picking, drinking hot spiced cider, leaf fights, pumpkins, hayrides, etc.), namely, layering on extra blankets and sleeping with the windows open.

Who doesn't love this? If you don't, you're c-r-a-z-y. Of course, the downside is if you're hungover, or stayed up too late reading the third Twilight book, and wake up cranky AND having to give yourself a peptalk to actually throw off the covers and race into the shower, because lingering too long would cause you to freeze and then return under the covers making you later than you already are. Not that I'd, you know, know anything about this. At all. Ever. (Also, Bella is lame and pathetic and unhealthily obsessed and she makes me want to scream and cringe almost as much as the writing does. And yet, it's book porn. Can't. Put. It. Down. But that's another post.)

That is all.

Sites I L-O-V-E.

I'm a girl obsessed with my Google reader. I keep adding new sites, favoriting things I want to get back to, e-mailing links to friends. In between meeting you guys (virtually as it may be), getting referrals from friends, finding cool links on blogs I like, it's just ... well, awesome!

So, I thought I'd take a few minutes and pass along links to some of my most-loved blogs. It's by no means inclusive. Some are names you've heard of (The Pioneer Woman, anyone?) and some might be new. But take a few minutes and click on over. And maybe you'll add some to your reader, too. You can thank me later.

Overheard in the Newsroom: Journalists are dark. But damn, if this isn't The Funniest Shit Ever.

The Pioneer Woman: Five words to sum up this gem: Food Porn With Hot Cowboys. I'll add a sixth word: swoon.

Kind Over Matter: Like Prozac for your soul. With happy pictures.

Zooborns: I have spent entirely too much time cooing at pictures of baby animals and trying to figure out which one best personifies me.

Whip Up and U Create: Such great crafttacular round ups.

Modge Podge Rocks: Because sometimes you just feel compelled to glue shit.

Bakerella, My Boyfriend Dated a Chef, & Smitten Kitchen: OMG. Cake.

Oh Fransson & Film in the Fridge: I drool over their quilts and covet their fabric stashes.

Operation Beautiful: Because we are! But sometimes, we need strangers to remind us.

Latitude: My former co-worker helped start a newspaper in Montana. He makes me want to R-U-N-N-O-F-T to the mountains because of his pictures.

The Modern Gal: I'd be remiss if I didn't give this lady a shout out. She's a real life bestie and inspired me to start this. She also kicks ass in a variety of major ways.

Running for chocolate. (Or, my new project.)

So, you might have heard that I did a triathlon in July. Well, here's my dirty little secret. I didn't really train. In fact, when it came to running, which I knew was going to be my hardest leg, I threw in the towel early and decided to walk most of the 5K portion.

My goal in the race was simple: not to die. And, since I'm typing this NOT from the hereafter, it's pretty obvious I succeeded.

I felt great about my accomplishment. But in the intervening, candy-filled weeks, I've started to think I could have done better. Or tried harder. Instead of walking 90 percent of the 5K, I want to run 90 percent of it when I do it again next year.

So, I was particularly vulnerable susceptible when my co-worker Shawn sent me an IM today asking me if I'd be willing to do Couch-to-5k training to help keep him honest. I hemmed and hawed. Until I saw this. A HOT CHOCOLATE 5K.

SAY WHAT? You want me to run 3.2 miles and then are going to give me fondue at the finish line? Oh, HELL yes.

To keep each other honest, we're going to blog about our effort. I plan to be funny. He promises to at least be entertaining. And because we're (ok, I'm) horribly lazy, we decided to create a penalty if someone drops out. I tried to say the loser had to clean the other's bathroom, but apparently that was just too cruel for him to handle. So instead, if we wuss out, we'll have to bake cookies for the other's department and wear an apron of the other's choice for the day. I'm already thinking something in paisley. With ruffles.

So, add us to your reader. And feel free to weigh in on advice, insight, or just to be mean, cookie recipes.

A Picture's Worth 1,000 Words

Big ups to Design is Mine for posting these yesterday, which caused a tremendous amount of uncaffeinated giggles when I woke up this a.m. Couldn't have said it better myself.








Art work is from Carolyn Alexander's "Haughty Bitches."

Still feeling feisty and full of venom? Check out this virtual voodoo doll. Not that, uh, you know, I'd ever use such a thing. Or be able to tell you authoritatively that the virtual staple gun is a fabulous option. Right. :-)

Five Things.

I'm typing this from my cluttered desk, which sits in my cluttered bedroom, which is part of my cluttered condo. As the recession marches on, I can't shake this gnawing feeling of guilt when I look at all the stuff I've amassed. It's stuff I shouldn't have an emotional attachment to, but for a series of weird reasons, I do. It's stuff I wanted, but mostly, didn't need (let's not even discuss how many pairs of black shoes I own, or Timbuk2 bags.) It's stuff that weighs me down, but stuff I just can't seem to ditch.

I bet you've got it too, in your closets, junk drawers, storage bins, and basements.

Many moons ago when I was packing my over-stuffed home preparing to move from Tennessee with whatever I could shove in my car and a rented SUV, I remember sorting through what would charitably be called a small mountain of clothing, books, and assorted crap that I couldn't take with me.

"What a waste," I thought as I shoved it into two-ply garbage bags and hauled it off to Goodwill. "What a waste of money. What a waste of energy."

Apparently, I don't have much of a learning curve.

I spent part of Saturday in a salon getting my hair dyed back to its natural brown. While I was sitting there thumbing through US Weekly, I began to pay attention to the woman sitting next to me.

"I started giving away five things every day," she said.

"Really?" asked her stylist.

By her math, this lady figured that if she gave away five things every day, she'd have gotten rid of some 500 items by the end of the year.

That's a lot of junk. That's a lot of physical and emotional cleansing.

"Wow, so do you watch Clean Sweep for inspiration?" asked another stylist, referencing the TLC show.

"I don't have a TV. I gave it away."

I sat there for a while and thought about what a radical idea this woman had. Sure, we're told charity is good and clutter can lead to chaos. But our culture doesn't really reinforce that. Stuff is status. Retail is therapy. We acquire things and that makes us, however briefly, happy.

Look around you. How much could you give away and not even notice? An item a day? Ten? It's a pretty phenomenal exercise when you think about it.

I think I might try it. You?

Seriously?

Someone found my blog by Googling the phrase "people with pool noodles in their butt."

Um, seriously? Who Googles that? How does that situation even happen? And what did you think when you found my little bloggy blog? Disappointed much? God knows if that's what I was researching, I'd be a wee bit peeved.

Although, um, for the sake of science, I did have to Google the phrase myself just to see where I fell in the lineup. I made it through three pages before I got bored.

Awesome.

I'm going to sing, sing, sing....

I have been singing and humming to myself all night. What's with this uncharacteristic dose of happiness?

Flashbacks, baby.

Yup. I'm thinking about muggy nights, color wars, arts and crafts, awkward dances, even more awkward first kisses, jelly fish stings, wind surfing, lanyards, volleyball, vespers, gong shows, dining halls, ridiculous skits, cots, sleeping bags, Bible studies, rafting, tents, cabins.

Ah, summer camp. How I loved thee.

Thanks to my exceedingly generous parents, I spent weeks every summer at different camps. Orchestra Camp (yes, I'm a dork.), Field Hockey Camp, Ecology Camp, and the nerdiest of all ... drumroll... International Relations Camp. (We debated NAFTA. Yes. We were rockstars.)

But my favorite by far was the one week every summer I spent at Camp Pecometh. Yes. Church camp. And let me tell you, peeps and peepettes, it was always, unequivocally, without-a-doubt, the Best. Week. Ever.

Pecometh, a Native American sounding name that actually stands for Peninsula Conference Methodists, was 90 minutes from home and a world and a half away.

That place and that pier. Sigh, talk about something, some place, and some time I'll never forget. Learning with windsurf. Learning to sail. Learning to shave. Meeting people from other countries for the first time (I seem the remember the Aussie counselors being seriously hot). Learning what it meant to "go out" with a boy. A few years later, having my first kiss on the camp's pier with a turned-out-to-be-crazy boy named Wayne. My first exposure to Nirvana and daisy dukes.

It was my dream to work there as soon as I turned 16 and was old enough to be a lifeguard. (Counselors were in college.) I dreamed about it: That awesome red Speedo, a gleaming metal whistle, a whole summer of freedom and romance and sun. It wasn't about God then. It was about learning who I was and who I could be, where I fit and where I didn't.

I never became that lifeguard. Instead, I spent the summer of 1996 as an oh-so-responsible high school intern at a local TV station. I processed promos, had a creepy shooter white balance on my ass (note to self, never, EVER wear a white skirt again), hung out on live shoots, organized resume tapes, close captioned segments and replied to viewers who just HAD to have copies of Mr. Food's recipe of the day. The next summer it was another internship at the local newspaper. And then it was about resume-building. I never looked back.

Maybe that's why I've been singing so much tonight.

Nearly two decades after I first stumbled into Camp Pecometh, I'm now an active member of a church that I love. While you'll never find me preaching about faith (Shoes? Yes. Grammar? Oh, hell yes. God? Nope.) I really am so glad and grateful that it's part of my life. It's where you'll find me every Sunday (and most Wednesdays), where you'll find so many of my Chicago friends, and where I devote so much of my out-of-work-energy.

It's because of that involvement that you'll find me at another church camp next month, participating in a young adults retreat. It's not Pecometh. Nothing ever will be. Still, it's a chance to get away from the city and everything that makes you so tired here. It's a chance to hang with people who've become some of my best friends. There will be s'mores and crafts. Bible study. (Unlike Pecometh, there will more than likely be beer. There's probably going to be a 100 percent decrease in making out. For me, anyway.) And if I have my way, there will be singing.

I didn't intend to blog tonight. Instead, I thought I'd search for titles and lyrics for some of the old Pecometh songs as preparation for the retreat gets under way, hoping to survey some other people and creating a songbook with guitar tabs for the event. That prompted a Facebook status asking my friends what their favorite church camp song were. One hour and 22 comments later, it seems like I'd really hit a sweet spot for people. I guess when you're a kid and you're learning who you are and how the universe works, songs and music are a great way to identify, connect with, and discover your faith and your view of the world.

So tonight, I'm humming songs like Humble Thyself, Sanctuary, Seek Ye First, I Will Call Upon You Lord, and that perennial camp number: Pass It On. I'm thinking about Wayne and camp antics. What it looked like to see the sun set over the river. Or the sound of a few hundred kids singing hymns by candlelight in an outdoor chapel.

What a blessing, indeed.

____
What's your favorite camp memory? Favorite song? Church camp or not, I wanna know!

Twenty Things I Want.

In no particular order and not necessarily inclusive:

1) Libraries in every neighborhood with speedy inter-library loans.
2) The chance to sew and/or create every day.
3) To be part of a community that fulfills as much as it gives back to others.
4) The body I had 10 years ago, the strength I have now, and the knowledge I'll have in another decade.
5) A strictly enforced mandate that girlie exams be completed in under 15 seconds.
6) The golden rule to be universally practiced and karmic punishment for those who commit serious infractions.
7) Inspiration when I least expect it.
8) Inspiration when I need it the most.
9) Wisdom that finds me every day.
10) A magic bank account that pays my ever-increasing condo fees each month.
11) To run in reality the way I do in my dreams. (You know those dreams where you're not just running, but FLYING and leaping without effort or sweat or feeling like your lungs are being suctioned out through your rib cage?)
12) A dog who's made peace with squirrels, rats, and all variety of small-and-furry mammals.
13) To wake up every day more excited about life than I was the day before.
14) To feel the same way about a boy the way I felt at that first dance during summer camp in 1993.
15) To never be without a DVR, a good book, or both.
16) Fearlessness.
17) Shoes that are simultaneously stylish, comfortable, and affordable.
18) A home that's clean and uncluttered.
19) To be surrounded by smart, talented, and driven people who make me smarter, more talented, and more driven.
20) For my friends to realize how important they are.

What's your list?