Well, bless my heart

Got my sew on at 2 a.m. yesterday. I seriously just went to the sewing room (yes, I have an entire room full of crap to tinker with, jealous?) to make sure the iron was off before I went to bed. I had sorted through all my scrap fabric and resolutely placed all but the vintage stuff in the yard sale box. (I know, Nettie, but I've seen the error of my ways.) I noticed that some of the 'scraps' were actually yardage, and that's not really 'scraps' if you can make a whole something out of it, right? Then I remembered a coworker who volunteers at a children's shelter had requested anything we could give, as the shelter was over capacity and short on supplies.

As I am a HUGE fan of instant gratification and problem-solving, I started a new project at 12:30 a.m. (Disclaimer: I work evenings. I usually get home about 11 p.m., so 2 a.m. is when I try to go to bed...so not as insane as if I had to work at 8 a.m. Point is, the sewing machine sucked me back in when I was just trying to put safety first. Damn your evil mindgames, Brother XL-3010!!!)

I dragged all the fabric out and started matching sizes and colors. I even washed the fabric, cause who knows how long it's been in that cardboard box in the closet? Some of the scraps were from my mother's maternity clothes.

Yes, hoarding runs in the family.

So I've got fabric lengths washing, drying, and spread all over the room. Wayne is fast asleep, and blissfully unaware of the crazed actions being carried out just across the house (read that in a TV crime-docudrama announcer voice. Did I mention that I'm awake late at night and TV is CRAP then? Oh, you inferred. You're a smart cookie, Nettie.)

Out of all the chaos, I manage five blanket and pillow sets. Yeah, I matched fabrics and filled bobbins with all those weird-colored spools of thread that were filling up a drawer (honestly, sea foam? What godawful outfit did I use this for originally?) and sewed for two wee hours. I was actually SWEATING, I was so into this. Normally, the queen does not sweat, and will avoid any activity that is rumored to make oneself do so. But it's for the CHILLENS! Actually, I only finished three blankets and two pillows, but I have the others all sorted and pinned and ready to go.

It was so fun! I had three different floweredy fabrics that I matched all up, some scraps left from making curtains for Wayne's Simpsons themed-room, even an embroidered cowgirl wallhanging from my childhood that I repurposed. I swear my scrapbag was cosmically connected to the great Craft Goddess, because I just kept pulling out fabrics I could actually use. There was some red corduroy I have never seen before in my life, but it was perfect for the pillows. (Having spent lots of time around children, I know the importance of texture in a lovey/blankie/binky. At least one surface needs to be nubby/satiny/velvety for maximum comfort. It's just the way the world works.)

I even found a use for the red fabric with stripes of hearts, cats, and sheep. Total countrykitschcrap that I would never have in my house if it weren't for the immunity of the scrapbag (article 54, subsection G, paragraph 2: Any fabric that wouldn't normally be allowed in the house is allowed in the scrapbag. No matter the heinousness of the pattern, the unpleasantness of the texture, the stains, the rips, the tiny size, any and all fabrics are allowed because you might need it some day. )

And the reason I had yards of this stuff? Because my mother lovingly sewed it into a pinafore dress for my first grade Christmas pageant. Yes, over twenty years ago she got a great deal on YARDS and yards of this fabric, and made me a dress out of it to wear with white tights and saddle oxfords. I think she actually had more left over than she used in the dress.

Reason I remember it so well? I was picked to be one of the narrators, and the others were SECOND GRADERS. It was a high honor for a first grader to be chosen and I was the only one. Bwwwahahahahaha! Let's just say Queenie here has never had a problem with the talkin.

Back to point: I finally went to bed at some ungodly single digit hour, and woke up with a crick in my neck from hunching over the sewing machine. (Luckily, I know how to alter patterns so that I can make housedresses to fit my old lady hump I'll have from all the bad crafting posture.) So I prompty retired to the couch, where I did the handsewing, tacking, and pillow-stuffing while watching my fa-vor-ite show, A Haunting. Nothing like having the bejeesus scared out of you while surrounded by pins, needles, and scissors.

Now I have to get off the computer and finish the other three before Saturday when I have to turn them over to her.

I promise to have pictures as soon as I find that damn cord!

I didn't forget

I crafted yesterday! Two days ago I went through all my sewing/crafting/world domination supplies and sorted. Note that I didn't say that I got rid of any, I just took stock. Instead of buying any more supplies, I actually (brace yourself, Nettie) used the supplies on their intended project. I know! Wow. I'm about to go back to the fainting couch, but I had to let you know.

I did buy beads. My name is Queen and I'm a craft-aholic. Also a clearance-aholic, because they were packages of beyootiful beads for only one dolla. I wouldn't lie to you, Nettie. So I brought those poor unwanted beads home and made a purty necklace, as I'm sure the crafting gods intended. I actually had all the supplies I needed for the necklace! I'm gonna have to do this sorting thingy more often. And I found some earring backings (findings?) so that I could finally turn these tiny vintage brooches into earrings. Since I'd already backslid with the beads, I didn't go buy actually wire pliers, but rooted around in Wayne's toolbox and found some rusty wire cutter. A word of advice--if you're going to use the improper tool, use it in a safe way. I found that the wire cutters worked wonderfully, except that they sent the shredded brooch backings pinging all over the living room from the force. Solution? Turn the damn brooches over so that the backings you are removing merely embed themselves in the coffee table instead of scattering craft shrapnel all over the room. That's the lesson for today, boys and girls!

Jeepers, Batman, I made a blog!

I've spent the last two days bloggity-blog-blog-blogging. That's what I call the random clicking from link to link, from blog to blog, until you've gone so far that you can't get back to the original article/blog/video/whatever the reason you got on the web in the first place. After two days of reading blogs--and I mean TWO days, I had to make myself get up and do other things like shower and eat--I thought, I can do this! This will be fun! And with the price of postage going up, I can still contact my friends with all the witty quotes and crazy stories they've come to love (or at least not marked 'Return to sender').
At first I was skeptical. Who wants to read about a twentymmfffmmf year old married woman with two cats and mad spelling skills? But, dear Nettie, I have found the home of all nerds, where geeks go to die (or at least post regularly), where any dork with an obsession can share it with the WORLD (said in maniacal cackle worthy of an evil villain with a super weapon)! Bwahhahahahah!

Ok, for today's thrilling adventure. Backstory: I drive a 1994 Ford F-150. It's big, it's brown, it's loud, and it's in really good shape, mechanically. Physically, it's got a few dents and dings. One of my old roommates backed into it, I hit a parking garage column the day I got it, you know. It's a fourteen years old, dammit! Show me ANY fourteen year old that doesn't have issues. Anyway, my husband HATES it. He drives a 1999 Honda Passport. Guess who was still paying on their car when we got married? I have never had a car payment (insert smug, superior smile here). I paid cash for both vehicles I've ever owned. Yes, I've owned TWO cars in the over ten years I've been driving.

Gah, see, I have this issue with sticking to a storyline--mine are more 'story webs' as I physically cannot leave a detail out, unless I forget. But I'm going to try to do better for the sake of my dear readers.

Back on track! I don't love the truck or anything. It's really reliable and safe and until the gas gods started demanding bigger sacrifices, it was cheap to drive. When we moved to a new city, I drove the Honda to work and DH drove the Ford. His job was way close, and mine was farther out, so the gas mileage was the deciding factor. Then we bought our house (yay) and it switched, so we switched cars. For some reason, he's been driving the Ford for the past month, but I wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth. Last night he tells me, really earnestly, that he's got to have the Honda back, that the gas is killing him and he can't drive the Ford anymore. Mmmkay, why'd you start driving it in the first place, dingus?

In the past month, he's broken the shifty-thingy (it's an automatic, so is it the 'gearshift' if it's on the column and not on the floor?) so that it dangles at an alarming angle (dangles at an angle, dodah dodah dum....) and you have to start it in Neutral and use the emergency brake to park it. Great. (We have an awesome mechanic, but we have to really plan our visits because he's all the way across town and we both work evenings, but at different times.) So he's been dealing with the dangling thingy. And he mentions it will probably need some power steering fluid. Oh, look a the manly mechanical man, with his under-the-hood terminology! That's like windshield wiper fluid, it's not gonna tear anything up if we put off replenishing it, right?

So I get in the car to go to work, figure out that Neutral is between Reverse and Drive, the two gears I'm going to need most, and go merrily on my way. By the end of our street, something is wrong. Either the caribou migration is passing through and its sickliest members are following me, or there's an amorous walrus in my truck bed. At the stop sign, I check. Nope, neither. I try to turn left and pinpoint the problem.

Have any of you ever driven a 1953 Allis-Chalmers tractor? Much like that.

For my non-agrarian friends, it's like trying to physically push the wheels into alignment with my bare hands. And something to do with the engine reallyreallyreally hates me for doing it, and is voicing its displeasure. I have to throw myself onto the steering wheel to make any turn. There are twelve turns from my house to work. I counted. I had the time, while trying to wrestle a ton of Detroit steel.

Because tact has never been my strong point, I immediately call my husband and demand that he get his ass of the couch and go buy some power steering fluid. I pointed out that just because he didn't like my truck didn't mean that he could murder it. Which is what it sounded like, all the way to work. Then I have to park on a hill. Great.

I got out of work, manhandle the groaning truck through our labyrinthine parking lot (in full view of a group of my Mexican coworkers, who are all carheads, have nicer cars than me, and think it is hi-fucking-larious that this blonde American girl drives this giant, loud truck) and make it home. My DH is not there, but there IS a bottle of power steering fluid actually sitting on the counter. I was happier than if it were a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Not that I've ever actually called and demanded that he go buy me champagne, but now I know it will work.

I get up first thing this morning (my 'first thing' is never before 10, just a note to those who like to call at 8 and ask 'whatcha doin?' because the answer is usually 'contemplating your murder' if you call that early). Overcoming my inherent laziness, I marched straight to the garage for my maintenance manual. (Lest this give you the idea that I actually do this kind of thing often--the only reason I know that I HAVE a maintenance manual is because I got tired of stabbing my fingers on the fishhooks my brother left behind when he sold me the truck, and I cleaned out the glove box. Lo and behold, there was the maintenace manual! With an alphabetical index and everything!)

I look up 'power steering fluid' and there it is! Page 354! That must mean it's something hard, if it's that close to the end. That's how crafting instruction manuals are laid out, so it follows, right? Undaunted, I find the picture (love pictures of mechanical thingies, even better if they are multi-colored and have numbers corresponding to step-by-step instructions and clarifying arrows).

It's a really straightforward drawing. I try to orient myself. There's the box with the three arms growing out of it. There's the belt and all its pulleys. There's the power steering reservoir, right on top! And the book says that its cap is yellow! Hallelujah, I can do this. I'll show my husband how it was so EASY, and why didn't he just do it in the first place? I am the Maintenance Master!

Then I open the hood. Which involved opening the garage door and backing the truck halfway out into the driveway, because our garage is compact car length, not Ford F-150 Long bed body style length. (I am still in my pajamas, by the way. Lime green cheerleading shorts and a turquoise tank top. Luckily my across-neighbors are uber-religious and go to church every Sunday morning. Oh, well, they've known me for six months, they probably pray for my soul anyway.) I pop the hood and jump up on the lip of the engine compartment. I have to sit side-saddle, like some ladylike Victorian equestrian. I look for a yellow cap. There's the metal box with the arms...there's the yellow loop! Wait. Yellow LOOP? I need a yellow CAP. There is a cap to every damn kind of fluid except power steering. Windshield wiper, brake, spinal...no power steering. After the incident with the chainsaw gas in the tank of my Grand Am, I am really leery of pouring things into my car. I don't even like to pump my own gas, and I KNOW where that goes.

Well, shit. Have you ever noticed how the more detailed an instruction manual is, the less likely it is to match your equipment? I mean, every little knob and doohickey of my engine is laid out exactly in porportion and to scale, and NO YELLOW CAP. It's the only thing that's NOT on the damn diagram. So now I have that oilydustycarick all over my hands, a full bottle of power steering fluid, and a severe drop in self-esteem. How can I not figure this out?!? The internet will save me! It always knows the answer! I'll come inside and google 'Ford F150 power steering fluid diagram'.

Hmmm. Have you also noticed that the more specfic you are with google, the less accurate the answer is? GAHHHHHH. Ok, I tried to resist the internet, but I can't. Then I get to the bloggity part, and accidentally hit the big X in the red box, instead of the back arrow. I am logged out completely, and I don't know the address of the last page I was onnnnnnn.........AAARGHH. Shit.

But there's this 'create your own blog' button. What's the worst that could happen? I'm already on the computer for sickening amounts of time checking other people's blogs, why not my own? Because I REALLy need another never-ending project...(why doesn't Microsoft come up with a 'sarcasm' button that changes the text so that everyone knows you're being all ironical, like when you're yelling in ALL CAPS? That's an innovation I could actually use.)