Because, yeah, barf, there was some of that, and then, there was what happens to barf after a few warm days in the car. Yeah. Like barf stew. I mean sure, I SHOULD have cleaned it up the first day, and you know what? I sort of did. I totally wiped up the chunks. But barf? It goes deeper than the chunks, doesn’t it?

Anyway, I put off cleaning it up because by the time I was near at hand with running water and cleaning products, the insidious barfing vacation virus had managed to impale itself upon my own intestinal stew. (So I was busy barfing, just in case I lost you.)

Dear Summer Vacation to Small Tourist Island: YOU TOTALLY BLEW. Well, maybe you had some good points, but THE VIRUS wasn’t one of them. And just for the sake of drama, I will leave out for a moment the scenic vistas, and present instead to you: All The Parts of Our Trip that TOTALLY BLEW. One: fancy camera losing; two: whiny screamy driving; three: midnight diaper pooping; four: MULTIPLE toilets breaking; and five: running into ex-boyfriends who don’t recognize you. Oh, and then I lost my wallet. (That actually got turned in to the police who got in touch with me quickly, but for a while there, THAT TOTALLY BLEW TOO.)

(Head spins in circles, shoulders stay still.)

Phewf! The virus has been excorcised. (Literally and metaphorically.) I can see now that the trip was really just a divine lesson in letting go, and going with the flow. (Having written that, I am very tempted to segue into diarrhea talk here, but no, I am BEING SERIOUS PEOPLE.) In the middle of the shit storm (heh heh, couldn’t help it) there was no choice but to just deal with it. There is no controlling a stomach virus. That bitch controls you. And so there was that lesson again. Let go. There is only this moment. Stop trying to control, and instead just ride that wave (of nausea) wherever it’s gonna take you. Or maybe I am just tripping out from dehydration. Whatever. You know I am totally deep dude.

***

So what’s the experiment anyway? Blogging without pictures or direction. I have always blogged with photos, as well as tried to remain On Topic, as it were. Well, no more friends. Navel gazing internet bloggery in all your potentially self-absorbed and quite-possibly embarrassing glory? Oh sweet darling, I am EMBRACING you!

Today is the ninth anniversary of my mom’s passing, and I am just now starting on a memorial quilt. The clothes have been in boxes for all those years. It was easier than I thought it would be to finally open them up again.

My plan is quilted TIGER STRIPES. Yeah, dude. I am totally quilting tiger stripes. And, you know, the many soft florals in my mama’s wardrobe might not really work with that, but I’m just gonna go for it. My mom might have been a soft flower on the outside, but what Mama isn’t a tiger at heart, am I right?

Author Natalie Goldberg writes somewhere in her excellent book Writing Down the Bones that writing can be like the black gold that sifts down through the compost heap of your mind. (I am totally paraphrasing and it’s been years since I read the book, but I think it went something like that.) This quilt then, is the black gold that has sifted down through the fabric heap of my life. Scavenged, saved, stashed. You know how that goes, right?

The sashing is a cream colored cotton, and the binding is a charcoal gray wool. The backing is a tough-ish natural colored canvas, which is not especially cuddly, but my plan for this quilt is that it will be our summer picnic quilt, and you gotta be a tough-ass quilt if your made for outdoor living.

Oh! And the name of the quilt. Each block of color is made up from four Bright Hopes quilt blocks. When all was said and done they reminded me of windows. And the compost part – well we already covered that.

I didn’t get any actual quilting done yesterday, but I did get to kick back and read a quilting magazine while savoring these sugar-bomb cookies. So basically, a lot of quilty daydreaming. Not to be a boring old lady or anything, but I can’t think of a lot that’s better than that.

I feel like I’ve run a marathon! (Which probably only proves that I’ve never run a marathon since I am comparing it to the feeling of sitting on the sofa for hours on end, BUT ANYWAY.) After countless hours of piecing, and basting, and quilting, (and ripping,) and binding; this quilt is DONE. (Pictures will be taken and posted soon.)

Now, on to planning the next one…

Oh, you dirty learning curve! Why you gotta be so steep? I thought I had it nailed with this tiny little doll quilt, (and this is a doll quilt, by the way, and not a [silly? glorious? absurd?] mug rug). I like all of the fabrics in this quilt, and have used them in other projects to good effect. But here? Here they are terrible. A mess. Overkill. Unbalanced and… ugly. there, I said it. Ugly.

Thankfully, Thomas (for we don’t have “doll” dolls around here, mostly tiny talking trains and plastic jungle cats,) doesn’t seem to care:

So, shall we say a prayer?

Dear Holy Quilting Goddess,

May I please never make such an ugly quilt again, OR should I be doomed to make many more similar mistakes in the future, may they be on a similarly diminutive scale. (Perhaps I’d best start up with the mug-rugs?) Alrighty-then.

Amen.

It was quite a while ago now, but I do remember a time when I thought ironing was something only my mother did to make perfect creases in her high waisted jeans. In other words, EMBARRASSING. Ironing was for old ladies and prudes.

This, of course, was before I was married with kids. Before I became the proud owner of a ramshackle house and garden, and the not so proud owner of mountains of laundry that could make sherpas weep. Back then, I did not plan on EVER doing the ironing. Actually, I was going to be a rockstar when I grew up. It would all be very glamorous. I had a shiny red electric guitar, and when I stood on stage with my gold glittery guitar strap and my perfectly quaffed pink hair, I did not envision a lot of ironing in my future. No mam. I did not.

But here I am. Happily pushing the iron around the ironing board that I got for Christmas this year. (Oh, you read that right. I got an ironing board for Christmas. And, it was not even a gift from a helpful sister, or a condescending mother-in-law. [I don't have a sister, and my mother-in-law is very nice, for the record.] It was a gift from my husband, and he picked it out on Christmas eve with me standing there beside him, hemming and hawing over which of the two ugly boards in the laundry aisle of the big box store that we should get, while our two lovely toddlers whined like it was seventy two hours past their bedtimes. What can I say? It’s how we roll around here.) My jeans, though, still don’t have a crease down the middle. But my quilt seams do, and surprisingly, I like that.

And that’s the thing about life (and ironing). It’s different and more satisfying than you think it will be. At least that’s how it feels to me right now. Rockstar? Oh, maybe one day. But right now I am happy with this. Ironing out the creases in my own little piece of happiness. Ironing. It’s totally glamorous.

This quilt is made up from a bunch of stash fabrics (re-purposed and otherwise) in a wide variety of weights and textures. So, how am I feeling about this project right now? Like Satin is a slippery bitch, and corduroy is a pushy f*cking bastard. But, you know, I like the quilt. This picture shows it with its charming bright orange basting, but we are past that now (onto the binding stage) and (ooooooooh diggity!) am I excited for this one to be done.

It will be our summer picnic blanket. Our immensely impractical red satin and cream cotton summer picnic blanket. And, perhaps embarrassingly, I think it suits me.

Courtesy of the man in the basement (where we keep our woodshop), a brand new blanket chest to house all of our handmade quilts.  (Thanks Dan!)

And not even overflowing yet! I better get to work on that…

We ran out of firewood last week – had a fresh cord delivered today. It was too warm for a fire, but I built one anyway. I wanted that cozy feeling of working in front of a fireplace. So I quilted (and ROASTED,) and loved it.