The Leprechaun Story

Some things are funny. Some stories are true. Here’s a true story about something funny. Before you read this, you should know that I teach first grade. That I love it. But also, that some classes are more…spirited….than others. And that sometimes there’s not much you can do in life, but stand back and watch it unfold around you.

St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Saturday. Because the classroom is the natural breeding ground for holiday odds and ends, and Monday would be too late to do much for it, we started exploring the realm of the Irish a whole week before the actual date. We read books about leprechauns, wrote about how we would spend our gold, discussed possible trap options, and stressed the importance of the color green to all within earshot.

On Tuesday of this week, three of my girls snuck took some crayons with them to recess. Keep in mind; these are my good girls, my eye of the storm in my class of chaos. They are dependable and sweet and can follow two step directions. I adore them. However, on this particular Tuesday, their motives were a bit, shall we say, cloudy. They huddled together all recess and drew a mural of illustrations on the playground’s concrete benches. Red, blue, green, people, animals, hearts, zigzag lines, swirly lines, the whole shebang.

Now, you may not know this, but crayon is not meant for concrete. It doesn’t really come off of concrete. At least, not without some pretty intense chemical solutions and a whole lot of scrubbing. After calling three less-than-thrilled parents, and doing actual research online for how to get the stuff off, it was decided. All three girls (and their moms supervising) would be responsible for spending their lunch recess the following day cleaning, in front of everyone. The point of this tangent story is to tell you that it was only Tuesday. And I was already in custody of three young ladies making headlines in the principal’s office. And these are my ‘good’ ones. It is of no consequence that all the other kids were jealous that the three girls got to use soap and water and special sponges at recess, and were begging to have a turn. Ridiculous.

Moving on to Thursday. Trying to put the past in the past, all of my darling students are at recess, labor free. As I head out to bring them inside, I am greeted by the recess aide…and seven of my students. Apparently the crew had spent their entire recess digging up the playground field. I surveyed the damage. Huge pieces of grass and land, gone. Craters. Tunnels. A massive mess, and a clear eyesore, and a danger to any other child running along that path.

Now, I have no idea where this aide was during this excavating expedition. These kids had made the most of their time, and it was obvious they had had quite a bit of it, but whatever. I was furious. We marched back inside to the tune of, “I am SO disappointed in you. I cannot BELIEVE that this was a choice you made. Did you EVEN SEE what that field looked like when you were done? You have NO IDEA what you have done, and just how SERIOUS this is!” By the time we reached the classroom, the seven were crying. The reminder of the class was doing that whole eerie silence thing, where they sense danger at making the slightest sound.

The infamous seven now have their heads down, and I get the rest of the class onto an activity so I can figure out what to do next. It was relayed to me that only six of the kids had done the actual digging. One had stood in the group and watched them. I knew I was sending the group to their doom in a few moments, and would be calling parents, and it would not be pretty. I decided that the onlooker didn’t quite deserve that fate, not quite. Instead I took him out in the hall and gave him a lecture that breathed fire. About the seriousness of what had happened, and how by watching and doing nothing to stop it, he was just as guilty as the perpetrators. In the world of adults, he was an accomplice to a crime. Blah blah blah, some hints at possible jail time, you’ve hurt our mother earth, the usual. I sent him back inside. I motioned for the six to join me.

We walked to the principal’s office in silence. When I brought them in, it was clear she had been expecting them. She had been notified immediately of course. As I left them there, I just remember thinking how happy I was that I wasn’t a principal. I mean, this crazy awful damaging thing had happened, and I was able to send the kids to her. She would hear them out, weigh the consequences, scare them out of their wits, and all would (eventually) be well. If I had been the principal, I have no idea of what I would have done. I will, however, tell you what she did.

About twenty minutes after I left my sobbing six in her care, my classroom telephone rings. “So…I’m sending them back, they’re on their way right now. I…uhh…I can’t punish them.” “Uhh…what?”  “I can’t punish them. Nicole, they were digging for leprechauns.” Dead air. “They were digging for leprechauns, and they thought if they worked together, like you teach them to (true), and were a team, then they would find them faster and more “efficiently”. (That is exactly what I say…) The kids said they planned to use the gold to buy more math books, because you love teaching math so much.” Honest to God. “I’ve never seen such honest faces Nicole. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t punish them.” “Okay, well…okay.”

At this point, six tear stained faces appear at the doorway. I get off the phone, and my mind is racing. When I saw these kids last, I was really REALLY upset with them. The whole class saw that I was, I can’t just shrug it off, I would lose face forever, or at least until June, and the fact that it’s still March and I have kids mixing leprechaun hunting with mild vandalism means that I need all the face I can get. So I do the only thing I can think of to do. I pull them all together in the hallway, and try to explain. “So… you see….(deep breath)  leprechauns put very powerful enchantments over their houses. (Pause) It can be really dangerous if you run into them on accident. I just had this horrible thought that you might get hurt, and if ANY ONE of you had gotten hurt by doing this…it would have broken my heart. I was worried, and scared, and I overreacted. I’m really sorry.” The kids were very forgiving. Outbursts of “We didn’t know!” and “We’re really sorry!” reached my ears in multitudes. My brain was reeling.

We ended up having a class discussion about construction procedures, and permits, and blueprints. For the reminder of the year, students had to (on their own time) write up a proposal for any major event they wanted to participate in. I, as their supervisor, would need to sign off on them before they could begin work. They actually did this a few times. In April, I had a group of four students form a ‘Classroom Council’ and they stayed in from recess for a whole week, planning an Easter egg hunt for the rest of the class, getting permission for each new idea from yours truly.

That is my March story from that particular year. It is still circulating around the school from time to time. When I finally grow gray, I’m finding my seven grayest hairs and naming them all after those kids. Seven? Oh yes, remember unlucky number seven I pulled out in the hall for my lecture. The one I thought I was letting down easy? The poor kid got the worst of the whole thing really. I did feel bad once I recognized this, but there was really nothing to be done. Sometimes, there just is really not much else you can do. Except require proposals. And issue permits. And make it through another day. 

21 Musings and A Peek In My Brain

And I present to you, a random stream of thoughts as I walk home from the store. Because maybe you can't sleep and are desperate for entertainment. I live to please folks. Truly. 

1. REDBOX!!! No. Do not get a Redbox. You will not return it. You know you won’t. It’s not worth it. Just go home and watch the Riches on Netflix.
2. Why am I not friends with Eddie Izzard?
3. Oh, and remember when in Good Will Hunting Matt Damon is all, “How do you like them apples?” He was a custodian in that movie.
4. Ugh. I have to remember to tell the kids to clean up better in the lunchroom. It’s like a food massacre complete with plastic cutlery. Eww.
5. I think a lot.
6. I miss my blog.
7. I should write a blog about what I am thinking.
8. I’m going to do it. Starting…..now:
9. Pumpkin Spice Latte. Mmm……..BUT. I can’t get it yet. It’s not Fall-ish enough yet. Soon though. I shall enter the realms of the highly commercialized Starbucks and be rewarded with a cozy cup of deliciousness. I’m totally wearing a sweater when I buy it.
10. Overhearing a guy on the phone, telling a story about a separate phone call. Dude. They can hear you. I can hear you. Everyone standing on or near this side of the Mississippi can hear you.
11. Jiffy Lube. Those guys are always so nice to me. And don’t overcharge me even though they probably could. My car needs to be vacuumed. Oh well, at least I threw away the sandwich that was in there.
12. Bread on the ground. How many ants will that feed? Or birds? Not pigeons though. Pigeons are irr-i-tat-ing!
13. I’m glad I’m making a smoothie for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe I’ll become the “smoothie-girl”. Everyone will know me by my awesome healthy smoothies and they will taste better than Jamba Juice. Hahaha, just kidding. Unfortunately.
14. Lights on, curtains open, in a stranger’s house. I am so nosy. Look how many candles they have! And an iron! I have an iron. Somewhere. I want a job where I could just peek inside people’s homes and write about them. But not say mean things. Just curious things.
15. Almost to my shitty apartment. God I hate that place. I feel like I’m being a grown-up wrong. Aren't grown-ups supposed to have houses and yard work and stuff? But really, I find myself relieved nearly every single day that I don’t have that stuff. I don’t want to be married and have four thousand kids that you have to feed and dress and convince not to eat boogers all the time. But the apartment truly is awful, no matter what kind of grown-up you are.
16. Why in the world is nose picking such a phenomenon? Seriously. I don’t know a single person who has never done it. Weird the things that connect us.
17. I can’t decide if I’m proud of myself or disappointed that I opted not to get ice cream at the store. I should choose to be proud, because now it’s too late. Plus, if I got it I would eat it. And then feel bad. Also, this way I can justify getting ice cream tomorrow maybe.
18. Phone call. I don’t understand why family stuff is hard stuff. Always.
19. Apartment. So many stairs. So many stairs.
20. Hello cat. I find it thoughtful that as lazy as you are you can still muster the energy to glare at me. Precious, really.
21. Home. Filled with sweet things that make me feel better. Because there are so very many ways that I will never be enough, that I need to be reminded of the little ways that I am. 

 

Just Moving...

Sometimes you wake up and see a picture of yourself using chopsticks for the first time and then you realize that you’re sad. True story. Sometimes you wake up and see clearly how everyone else in your life is ready and moving along, and you’re not ready for that and would much rather stay put…but can’t. Sometimes your inside jokes revolve around cows, ovens, and inappropriate historical figures. And even though you make a conscious effort to appreciate it while it’s going on, sometimes you realize that you could never have appreciated it enough.

Roommates are bad. At least, that’s what I’d heard. They steal your stuff and don’t pay bills and they take existing friendships and burst them into smithereens. Apparently, for the last two years, me and my best friends did the whole roommate thing completely wrong. We only borrowed stuff, however permanently, paid our bills, however late, and walked away with our friendships stronger than ever before.

The past two years, I took up new residence at The Place with the Stuff. Because, of course, you always name the things that are important to you. And as I pack up my belongings, and half-heartedly look towards an uncertain future, I wish I never had to leave at all.

My best friends drank wine. They let me duct tape their things to the walls, draw smiley faces on their fingers, and heard me rant about the mess in the kitchen. It would be a miracle if anyone ever wanted to live with me again.

I get that life moves on. That it is a fluid process, adjusting to each new day and each new choice that we find ourselves having to make. I understand that sometimes people close to us need to go farther away from us, to search for things they don’t have names for but know they need all the same. I know that people need space to grow, and sometimes that space is an inch away, and sometimes it’s a lot longer than an inch. I see that while beginnings are scary, they can lead us to new adventures, and new companions, and bring together life in surprising ways. I get it. I understand it. I see it. It still sucks.

I don’t even know how to explain it to anyone. To myself, even. Without crying. Which I don’t do. Ever. That despite having moments in my life where I was so confused and alone, that I ended up in a sanctuary. One that was decorated with giraffes and had a train whistle by the remote.  That 7:30 a.m. became a highlight of my day, because lunches are being packed and noise travels through heating vents more readily than previously thought. So many memories. So many witnesses to so many memories. I don’t know how many people have thrown up at my house, but I guarantee that I cleaned it up for you. It happens. You’re welcome.

The thing is, I cannot imagine a time in my life when everything will be as seamlessly connected as it has been these past years. Where your bad moods didn’t go unnoticed, and you had somebody to cry with. When Mondays were hard, and you weren’t a drunk as long as you opened the bottle with a friend. When great news was a celebration, and stories became performances, and the times you laughed the hardest were the ones where someone decided to go to the gym. As they were eating a donut.

My new house will be quiet. And dumb. It will be messy, and I will have no one to blame for that mess but myself. And I will consider calling people, but will talk myself out of it, assuming that they are busy and don’t need to be bothered. And I will be fine. And I feel as though everyone will head out on grand adventures, and return with their cheeks flushed and their eyes widened, and find me the same as when they had left. And that is probably my greatest fear. Even more than ladybugs. No, that’s not true. Ladybugs are still scarier. But it’s a close second. Because while everyone around me is moving on, I’m just moving. And I wander aimlessly, unsure of where to go or what to do. Knowing that the people in my life that know me best, that let me be my weird awkward self, are all sleeping under different roofs. And I never thought that I could miss people so much.

At my age, a lot of people are married, or heading there. Or they have kids, or are heading there. They have this path somewhere out ahead of them that includes other people. Well, I’m not getting married or having kids. And while I may be getting more awesome, if there’s no one around to vouch for it, it could just be me making that up. I can’t get cats, because I don’t like them. I can’t get plants, because I kill them. At this point, I just have no idea. So I continue to pack up my massive amounts of crap, crossing my fingers that it will fit in my Harry Potter cupboard sized new place, and eat a lot of grapes. In the form of wine. And wait to see what happens next. 

It's fine. Really. I'm much more capable now. Promise.

The best people I know. 

Also, while packing I seem to have misplaced my Harry Potter books. That could really be where this whole thing started. I know I put them somewhere safe. Somewhere so, so, so safe. And secret. And apparently also invisible...

Why the Elephant Stays

Spring is coming. I can feel it in my bones. Also, I look out of a lot of windows. I. Am. So. Excited! If I could do cartwheels as a gesture of that excitement, I would. But I can’t. In addition to being a hopeless potential cartwheeler (cartwheelee?), I am also a hopeless potential spring cleaner.

Every year I want to spring clean. Every year I face the same issues. In my head, my spring cleaning project goes something along the lines of this: get together everything I own, and burn it. I’m only halfway kidding. I seriously have so much…stuff. Just random, space stealing…stuff. While some of my things are valuable to me, such as my computer, my reading chair, and a super adorable cowboy hat, other items are not as useful. As in, I have boxes of things that I don’t look at, wear, admire, utilize, lend, or do much of anything with. And yet, they stay.

Because at that critical moment, the one where you have the garbage bag in your left hand, and all actual garbage is already in the bag and now you’re holding an old pair of 3D movie glasses in your right hand, and your arm is swaying back and forth between the garbage bag and the shelf, at that moment, I crumble. 3D glasses are a keeper. I might need them someday in a really odd situation, and quite frankly I feel security in knowing that. Odd situations are my forte.

Clothes are a beast unto themselves. I can stare into my closet for hours and come up with nothing to wear. Then I could look in my drawers, in my other closet, on my floor, anything hanging on doorknobs, and come to the same conclusion. Possible solutions: Get new clothes? Yes. Get more clothes? Yes. Replace old clothes and then throw old ones away? Nope. There’s always the chance I would want to wear it the very day after I get rid of it. True story. What can I say? I like options. And also, by default, I apparently like laundry. A lot of it.

My inability to throw things out is ridiculous. My power to form such a strong and overwhelming connection to previously ignored items is a little bit impressive. I like being impressive. I can stand being ridiculous. I am my own downfall. I’ve decided to share with you some items that were on the chopping block, but were miraculously saved their imminent demise by yours truly.

The trouble that comes from loving to create art and also being quite terrible at the actual art portion, is that I wind up keeping all my own stuff. It’s never good enough to give to anyone (people that I want to like me anyway), but it’s never bad enough (in my own opinion) to toss out. Which is why this elephant will be staying with me.

Cards. I am that person. I go into an establishment, and walk out with their card. Even if I never return, I have a memento of my time spent there. It’s fun! You get to give them your junk email address that you never check, and they give you a shiny plastic thing that earns points for free! Or a card for a free something or other, after you purchase a gazillion of them. Hurray! The thing is, if I got rid of these, then I would just want to go to those places, and I’d be pissed that I threw away proof that I’d already bought two loaves of bread there, and that they no longer count in my quest for a free loaf!

Peanut Butter Santas. Yes, these are from Christmastime. But these are my “this-day-has-been-horrendous-and-I –walked-uphill-both-ways-in-the-snow-with-no-shoes-and-there-is-no-remaining-chocolate-within-reach-and-I-could-possibly-die-without-it” peanut butter Santas. It’s like a chubby white girl’s version of a 72 hour emergency kit. They’re like a hug waiting to happen.

A green, plastic bathtub. Now, I actually use this a lot. To hold things, like cords and stuff. If it were bigger, I would totally use it as a real bathtub, no question.  This is something I would never even think of getting rid of. When I got it as a gift, it had lots of fancy lotions and such inside of it, which were super. But the highlight? The bathtub. I think I squealed a little. Or a lot. Whatever. Don’t judge me.

Anyway, my point is that I’m sort of a hoarder. But like, a little one. A little baby hoarder, who doesn’t mean any harm at all. And also, I probably could benefit from professional help. Until then though, until that critical juncture is reached, and I’m wading through stacks of yellowing newspapers to get to the door and my clothing capacity resembles a badly organized thrift store, until then...I’m okay. I think. If I do attempt spring cleaning this year (I will) and throw something out (I probably won’t) I think everyone should get together and throw me a party. With balloons, and those cute little sandwiches. Maybe I’ll throw something out just for that!

Terr-uh-fied.

This post began as a like/dislike list. But I got fixated on my first item. So the rest will have to wait. Which is sad, because I really like a lot of awesome stuff. Instead, you get to read about something I don’t like. Oh well, you've made it this far, you might as well read on…

Things I don’t like:

Ladybugs. I am terr-uh-fied of these beastly creatures. They are awful. I can’t remember a time when the presence of them didn't cause some form of mild heart attack. I do remember a time however, when one of them landed on our tram on the Lagoon Skyride. I began to crawl out of the tram in horror, 60 feet above the ground, while a friend of mine frantically brushed it away. Then I made my way back in, barely breathing.

 I more afraid of ladybugs than I am that Kristen Stewart’s face is stuck permanently in that dull stoner expression and that I’ll be forced to see that repulsive expression for many Oscars to come due to bad casting calls. Now that’s fear.

You never see ladybugs coming. They always appear out of nowhere, lurking, skulking, being vicious in seemingly innocent ways. In no way is this a joke. Some close to me have doubted my sincerity. They have very nearly lost our friendship, putting this fear to the test.

Out of all the awful stories I collected from my ex, the worst is when I was cornered in the bedroom, clinging to the wall, in hysterics as a ladybug walked around by the doorway. He refused to move it and take it outside. (I may hate them, but I’m not a bug killer.) He was convinced that if I faced my fear, I could be rid of it. No. That is not how I work. I couldn't even run out of the house, because I’d have to past where it was, which in turn could have killed me. Or at least created a sobbing, vomiting, wreck of a human. Just because it’s ridiculous doesn't make it any less real.

I can look at pictures of them, and hold items that onto which people have drawn or painted them. It’s a sick joke of sorts, people will buy me these things as gag gifts. I bought you a plate…but….ha! It has a ladybug on it! Whatever. I don’t know what they expect. I’m weird, but I’m not crazy. My fear is rooted in the actual thing. The presence of it near me, and my knowledge of that presence. Shudder.

Listen, I know that humans have taken over the land, and destroyed forests, and eliminated habitats. We have much blame upon us as a species. But outside is still a really big place. And my house? Not as big. Therefore, there is no, absolutely no, reason why a vile ladybug should ever cross the threshold of my home. Or actually my porch. Once I found a dead ladybug on the porch couch. Of course, it was on a beautiful day and I had a book I was going to read, and I was in a gloriously calm mood. Then, BAM. Frozen. I tried to pep talk myself into getting a stick and knocking it off. No. I couldn't even get the other end of the stick to touch the thing, as I stood swaying on the porch, tears rolling down my cheeks. I actually had to leave the house. I waited until one of my sane roommates could take care of it. Which, in turn, led to a nasty round of, what I like to call: ‘You-Can’t-Really-Be-That-Afraid-So-I’m-Going-To-Test-Out-A-Theory-On-You’. Which, in turn, led to hysterics. Which, in turn, led to a friendship almost lost. Not even close to kidding.

The stories go on. It’s a blend of ludicrous and pathetic. Somewhere in my head, I just figured I would grow out of it. Then I never grew past 5 feet. Which, apparently, is simply not tall enough to outgrow an irrational fear of ladybugs. Add that to your scientific journals. I can even illustrate my point for you if you’re unable to read. It’s that important.

I guess it still requires reading...but the point remains the same!

I dearly hope that you are never put in the position of truly being afraid of something. But I know all of us are. Even so, I hope you don’t face that fear often. Because it’s an ugly, hideous feeling when you do. If we could just form an agreement with each other, that we would keep each other safe, from whatever evils (real, imaginary, and/or really imagined) that we may come across, I think I would feel a whole lot better in my situation. I think you might too. At least, consider it.

If you agree, respond by keeping all ladybugs far from my vicinity. You don’t need to harm them or anything like that. Just, you know, push them into a garden or something. Like a forest. Or maybe the Amazon, if you have those kinds of connections. On my end, I will respond by continuing to do what I've been doing all along. I’m going to assume that you are currently in a state of safety, and I wouldn't want to jeopardize that by doing something different. Unless, of course, you’re NOT in a state of safety. Like, you are near a ladybug. In which case, I cannot help you. If you are in a circumstance not involving a ladybug (and you’re sure that it doesn't involve one!) and are seeking my assistance, please contact me with a detailed description of what I can do to help. Until then, Godspeed. 

Under-The-Weather-Ness

Teaching is a great job. Politics and the like relating to it tend to swing back and forth, but the actual teaching profession is phenomenal to behold. I love it. Except that I work in a germ factory. Teaching miniature germ factories. By the time you've been around teaching a few years, your immune system is made entirely out of steel. It has to be. Otherwise you’d never be able to leave your bed and actually get to work. I've had kids throw up on my shoes, cough in my mouth (even more gross than it sounds), and leave their used tissues on tables, long forgotten. All of this and your body learns to rebuild itself, similar to a superhero mutation but maybe not quite.  My point: if a teacher is sick, then they are SICK.

I don’t know about you, but as long as I’m healthy, I sort of forget what being sick is like. There’s a level of disconnect between my sympathy for someone else and actually recalling the feelings and exhaustion that go along with being sick. It’s a mental version of: I just heard you cough, so I back up a foot. I don’t even want to remember what it’s like to be sick. At all.

Now though, I remember. As I sit, hunched over my computer, my eyes squinting and my pajamas mismatched, I remember everything. It totally and completely sucks.

Temperature is a tricky bastard when you’re sick. It can be this way even if you’re not, but when you are it is multiplied by about 6000. Too hot, too cold, too anything. Never a comfortable resting state. And the rest! If you’re lucky enough to be able to sleep, (which I am because it’s the weekend), your bed becomes both friend and enemy. I love my bed. Post alarm clock me is IN love with my bed. But when you have to be in it, deemed unfit for life activities, even I begin to resent it a little bit. Spreading the time between bed and couch helps, but honestly the couch is just the living room version of a bed and everyone knows it.

Now that I’m sick, I’m home. Which, in the craziness of scheduling, I feel like I haven’t really been here a whole lot lately. And now that I’m here, without a lot to distract me, I’m noticing things. Laundry piled up, dishes in the sink, paper piles that have sprouted up organically throughout my shelving. Things that need doing, only I’m too exhausted to do them. How can I possibly take care of household chores, when the very idea of making soup stretches before me in endless steps. Walking to the kitchen, opening the cupboard, finding soup, closing the cupboard, finding a can opener, and on and on and on. All this for soup. Dumb soup that I don’t even think I want anymore. In fact, am I hungry at all? Nope. Finally a diet that might work.

Being sick comes with a time limit. I feel like it is truer now than it has ever been before. People work a LOT. They cram their days with a million things that they feel like only they can do, and there simply isn't time to deal with all this under-the-weather-ness. I will tell you though, that if you have the kind of job that you can call in sick to, and have that be it, you’re incredibly lucky. If a teacher gets sick, if a rogue virus infiltrates their impermeable immune system, they are screwed. Because when you call in, you need to have sub plans that go along with that call.

Papers outlining schedules and directions, rules, classroom outlines, kids who are able to help if needed, what books to read, where to find that thing that you could find within seconds, but someone who has no knowledge of your classroom could take months to find. It’s like leading someone around in a dark room. From a letter. Oh and there are a thousand kids in the room. And some of them cough in your face. Good luck. My point is that I need to be better by Monday. Especially considering it’s Valentine’s week, and also, Teacher Appreciation week at my school. There’s no way a sub gets to come in for that. I’ll crawl in if I have to…which I might.

This post is whiny. I get that. But I’m sick. And home alone. And soup is really far away. And my bed is gloating. And my laundry resembles Mt. Everest. Plus it’s Friday, which should have a rule against anyone being sick on this day anyway, just on principle. So be nice to me. When other people claim illness, I do the standard ‘get well soon’ statement, the ‘so-sorry-it’s-you-but-glad-it’s-not-me’ face, and really do try and make things as comfortable as possible; all by staying a healthy two feet away from them of course. That’s all I ask. And also, if I could just get some soup? 

My progress thus far. Also, does anyone know what that spoon holder thingy in the background is actually called? I ended up calling mine Rico, but it doesn't quite feel right. 

This Bitch Can Stitch

I've decided it’s time to update you on my sewing abilities. I’m sure you’ve all been wondering how it’s going. Possibly losing sleep, questions about my progress circling through your head. Maybe you’ve worried about me. Have I poked myself with a needle? Did it bleed? Did I cry? Did I want to? (The answers are yes, yes, no, and yes respectively.) For those of you (perhaps ALL of you) that are unaware, I have been proud owner of a sewing machine since Christmas.

To be honest, the most surprising thing I've discovered is the lack of actual sewing that goes into sewing. There is a disproportionate amount of measuring, cutting, pinning, aligning, and planning that happens before you even get to turn on the fancy schmancy machine. (Which is the best part, because it has this cool light thingy!) Then you get to sew for like five seconds, and then start all over with the measuring!

When you have big dreams, like I do, this is tough. I set out to change the world of fabrics. To become the ultimate designer, layering patterns in clothing, accessories, blankets, pillows, home décor and the like. To date I have completed three pillows and half a shirt. The pillows have all been given good homes. One is mine so I’m nice to it, and the other two were given as gifts to two of the sweetest, kindest friends a gal could ask for. Flashback to your childhood home where dozens of painstakingly drawn pictures of deformed cats and hearts cluttered the front of the refrigerator. It was kind of like that, only in 3D and stuffed with fiberfill. They are lumpy and odd shaped, OR as I like to say they are each individually handcrafted, and their specific features only serve to add to their distinctive style and charm. If that doesn't convince you, I don’t know what will.

The shirt is my first attempt at creating my own wardrobe. With sizes that fit and angles that compliment. I’m not sure this shirt has either of those happening. I ran into trouble when following a step-by-step guide and took a bit of a detour in the ‘Imma gonna wing it’ area. But I AM going to finish it. When I do, I’m going to wear it ALL THE TIME. Because I will have made it. And that will be awesome. Ish. I’ll probably wear it with a cardigan over it. Or a jacket. Or my winter coat. We’ll have to wait and see.

With so many choices of hobbies out there, I don’t know why I had to pick sewing. But I did. I HAD to. I want so badly to be good at it. But I hate the learning curve that exists in all new things. That I can’t just do A, B, and C and get an applause worthy product at the end.  Nope. In fact if I had to describe it like that, it would be: A. Aaaaa. Come on! A. Whew. Okay. Beeeeeeeeee….nevermind. S. Allllright. G. T. Q R S T U V. Oops. Uhh….C. (cough) Umm. Hurray! It’s basically a madhouse. With needles. No joke.

Really the whole reason I even wrote about this was because I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep one night, and I was playing The Rhyming Game (as you do). So I thought of the word Stitch and came across Bitch and then I was all-hey, I’m kind of a bitch sometimes. Oh! Oh! I have a sewing machine and I can stitch! A bitch that can stitch! Oh now well that’s clever. I should do something with that. So here we are. This is me, attempting to do something with that. Let me assure you, this bitch can stitch. Maybe not as well as I’d like too, but hey, you have to start somewhere, and the beginning is a pretty good place for that sort of thing. And now you know. You can sleep soundly, full of knowing things about me and my sewing of stuff. You’re most welcome. Good night.