St. Louis Renfest 2012

Jeff and I went to Renfest yesterday.

I’m not gonna lie, the event itself was a little bit anticlimactic.  There were fewer booths than ever before, and a lot of the best shows and performers were nowhere to be found.  Not sure why – is it just the economy driving a lot of the pros away? Or is the St. Louis Renaissance Festival itself just sort of dying out?

(FWIW, the Kansas City Renfest last fall was as awesome as ever. I also imagine that a lot of the same people attend both, or – if they just go to one or the other – choose the KC one instead.  KC Renfest kicks ass.)

Anyway.  The day wasn’t all bad.  Far from it.  Because Jeff just got sexy new sunglasses:

(even the lady behind him thinks he’s hot.  Hands off, lady. He’s mine.)

And maybe this was a lack of forethought on our part, but we had completely neglected to consider what happens when you take a guy in handsome dark RayBans, and add one large yellow dog wearing a backpack:

Because when you combine the two…

What can I say?  We got her at “Discount Service Dogs ‘R’ Us.”  Slightly defective. 50% off.

I found this entirely too entertaining, let me tell you.  Like the evil horrible bitch I am, I positively cackled when Jeff first told me, “I think that guy over there thinks I’m blind.”

So then of course I spent the whole rest of the afternoon trying to lead him into trees and confuse perfectly nice, innocent bystanders with pictures like this:

I mean…is it my fault that people can’t tell the difference between this and this?

 

(Note: In case it’s not abundantly clear above, I’m not making fun of blind people.  At all.  Or even well-intentioned people who mistake a pibble with a backpack for a service dog.  Well OK, maybe the latter group a little bit.  I just think it’s funny, ‘s all.)

Jeffloveman, Professional Badass

Jeff graduated summa cum laude from Washington University’s School of Law on Friday.

I am so freaking proud of my handsome, smart husband that I don’t even have words.

 

(I’ll try to find some words, no worries).

For three years, I watched this dashing, brilliant man work his ass off, to get where he is today*.  He worked ridiculously hard in class, was an editor on the Law Review, worked for WU’s Environmental Law clinic, TA’d for a terrific faculty member, found two awesome summer associateship/internship opportunities, got hired as a federal judicial clerk for after graduation (and then an associate at a firm for after that), and managed to do it all while staying in the top 1% of his class.

(He got named recognition from the dean during the ceremony!)

 

And did I mention that he did all this while teaching and tutoring LSAT prep, playing Skyrim, occasionally washing a load of dishes, dealing with a hyperactive dog, taking glamorous international vacations, and putting up with me?

(I am in one picture from the day, and I look like a flippin’ beached whale in 3 1/2″ heels.)

Yes, that devastatingly attractive, clever gentleman above has managed to do it all.  BECAUSE HE’S JEFF-FREAKIN’-HOOPS, GUYS.

 

So really, making him a celebratory cheesecake was the *least* I could do.

(After the ceremony we had a lovely family get-together, hosted by Jeff’s cousins.  It was the perfect way to wrap up an awesome day.)

 

I love you Jeff, and I’m so proud of you I could just squeeze you until your head pops off.  SQUEEEEEEEEEEEZE.

~~~

*”where he is today” actually = “sitting at home prepping for the Virginia bar.”  THE MAN NEVER TAKES A BREAK.

Either crazy or brilliant

Last year I got a plain black jersey maxi skirt at Nordstrom rack for something like $20, and have rarely taken it off since.  It’s one of four or five non-maternity skirts that I can (at over 24 weeks pregnant) still wear.

So someone tell me if I’m completely off my rocker when I say…

I think I’m gonna try to make this:

That link and photo up there is to an *awesome* tutorial from Elle Apparel (seriously, you should check it out), which makes the sewing look so easy that hopefully even an idiot like me can manage.

And if I manage to screw it up eight ways to Sunday?  Well, if nothing else that’ll be an entertaining blog post, too.  But it will be fine.  Awesome, even.  Just you wait and see.

::gulp::

TO THE FABRIC STORE!

PS>My machine can only hold one spool of thread, so I’m going to do a blind hem.  Because that’s the way to guarantee that an experiment goes well: start changing shit around before you even start.

Just what every California baby needs

I think I mentioned recently that when I went to Jo-Ann to buy baby wipe flannel, I got to chatting with the clerk at the cutting table.  We were talking about quilts, and seeing as how I was having her do 1/2-yard cuts of 10 different fabrics, she naturally asked if I was planning to make a rag quilt.

It just so happens that I *wasn’t* planning on doing that, until she planted that idea in my head!  So I quickly added a few more yards of fabric to the cutting pile, and a devious plan was hatched.

(As an aside – this was the final project made on Frankenmachine, and this was also the day that sent Jeff fleeing from the house as I wailed and gnashed my teeth at that cursed POS.)

I know they’re a total fad and really common, but I must say: I loved this quick little project.

Guided by this awesome tutorial, it came together really quickly (even *with* the sewing machine difficulties).  I decided to cut my squares to 7″, with 1/2″ seams, for a finished quilt that was 42″ square. I also omitted the batting, figuring that would be pretty unnecessary in southern California.

 

I started the day with this:

and ended the evening with the entire thing pieced and the outer edge snipped.  I finished the snipping a few days later, then hauled it to the laundromat (at the tutorial-writer’s suggestion) for a hot wash and tumble dry.

This was seriously the easiest thing ever.  EVER.

(I love the soft, ruffly edges)

 

 

Now it’s stored away in a bin with other odds-and-ends we’ve made/received for Hoopling, and I’ll bust it out once we get to California.  The only problem is that since it came together so quickly and easily, now I want to make about a million more! :-)

Perfect for baby shit, of course

As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve wasted no time breaking Hazel in – she’s just finished helping me make a cool 55 simple, double-sided flannel baby wipes:

Finished the whole stack of ‘em in no time flat.  It was magical.  A lot of zigzagging, a few bobbin refills, and that was that.  Hoopling’s butt is ready to be wiped.

 

They were the easiest things ever, but if you really must have more details:

I took about 10-12 different flannels and cut them to 7″ square.  Then I put them all in a canvas grocery bag, and mixed ‘em up:

Here is where I tried *really really hard* to turn off my Type-A brain: for each wipe, I just reached into the bag and grabbed two squares, matched them right-side out, then stitched them together in a zig-zag at 3/8″ and pinked the edges for good measure.

 

Nothin’ to it, seriously.

 

(This one is my most favorite):

 

I gave them a nice warm wash and dry with vinegar and soap nuts along with the flannel rag blanket (still forthcoming, that post…), and they puffed up and frayed most endearingly:

Just *tell* me you don’t want to nom that sandwich.  I dare you.  (I mean, since they haven’t touched baby poop yet.)

 

I do love flannel so.  It may be my most favorite of all the fabrics.

 

What should I sew next? I’m thinking about stitching up one of the quilts that Grandma cut for me, or maybe making some burp cloths for Hoopling.

Fourth time’s a charm

Until very recently, I thought that sewing machines and I just didn’t get along.

No hard feelings, really (OK well maybe some, on my part).  But we just weren’t meant to be.

When I was a kid, I learned to sew on a 1980′s Brother model, set up in Grandma’s kitchen.  Laboriously, painstakingly, I pieced three or four quilts on that machine.  Every 5 minutes something would jam up, and I’d have to holler for Grandma to come fix it.  Of course, those problems were NEVER my fault. I never had a lead foot on the electric pedal, or mis-threaded the machine in my preadolescent haste, or tied knots when the bobbin thread snapped.  Who me? Of course not.  Definitely the machine’s fault.

Mom’s Kenmore at home wasn’t much better.  Even though she used it to hem all of Dad’s work pants and jeans, made umpteen polyester fur and/or ric-rack’d Halloween costumes for me and Ryan, and even used to make our everyday clothes when we were wee, the machine never worked for me.  Just like at Grandma’s, I’d sit down to sew on it and hop up two minutes later with a problem for Mom to sort out.

In a marked difference from sewing adventures at Grandma’s house, though, Mom didn’t possess a 80-year-old grandmother’s sense of indulgence and time and patience.  When I screwed up that Kenmore, I’d usually wander off to work on something else (like the World’s Longest Crochet Chain, or the pitiful book of “happy families and smiling people cut out from LLBean catalogs”, or whatever else it was that other completely normal children did) before Mom could find the time head down to the basement sewing room and sort out how I’d screwed up her machine *this* time.

Unfortunately, the curse didn’t break at midnight on my eighteenth birthday, or at my first kiss, or even when I lived in the forest with a bunch of funny-nosed dwarfs for a while (that was a crazy summer, let me tell you).

Five or six years ago, Mom and Dad gave me a basic beginner-level machine of my own, for Christmas.  I eagerly set it up in our bedroom in Kirksville, and while Jeff was out with friends I’d occasionally flip the machine on, pour a glass or three of wine, and make a half-assed attempt at sewing quilts or curtains.  Of course, after just a few minutes, the inevitable would happen:  bobbin vomit.  Or hitching or wild unspooling.  Or something.  Alway something.  So I’d wail and gnash my teeth and pour more wine and wander off to work on something else (like hand-piecing the hummingbird quilt of doom, or knitting ,or whatever else it was that other completely normal college students did).

By this point, of course, I was an adult of sound mind and logical reason, and had begun to suspect that perhaps my little sewing machine problem lay less with a giant coincidence regarding every sewing machine I’d ever touched, and was perhaps a personal problem of my own.

But even though I was aware of the problem, academically, I steadfastly maintained that maybe I just didn’t want it hard enough (I think I watched too much Peter Pan growing up).  So every six months or so since then, I’ve turned that machine on, sat down, and made a half-assed attempt at sewing something.  Two minutes later I’d get frustrated, say a few (dozen) curse words, throw the plastic cover back on, and forget about it.  Rinse and repeat.

Until last winter.

Last winter, you see, we hosted Christmas at our house.  Mom and Dad came in from Kansas City, and I put Mom straight to work sewing a runner for the holiday table.  I figured that just like every other time she touches a sewing machine, she’d have no problem using mine.  That it would bend to her will and turn out yard after yard of perfect, even stitches.

So I was surprised when, while I was back in the kitchen frosting a red velvet bundt cake and Mom was in the craft room working on the runner, I heard her sweet, kindergarten-teacher voice muttering “piece of shit machine”.

Score: Kate – 1, Machine – 0.

After inspecting the machine’s innards like a soothsayer reading animal entrails, Mom figured out that my sewing machine was actually a Frankenmachine.  Not that it supported the comedian cum politician, I mean, but that it had been cobbled together in the factory from the parts of three separate models.  And like one might expect from a mechanical object with a bunch of moving parts, that didn’t exactly work out so well.

HA.  This one wasn’t my fault after all!  For real and for true!  I wasn’t cursed!

In the few months since that discovery, I’ve been gimping along with the Frankenmachine.  I briefly experimented with an old machine of Grandma’s (not the  Bother  Brother that I learned on), but that was a bit too rusty for my limited restorative skills.  Me and Frankenmachine just sort of made it work.  I’d curse at it, thump the side for good measure, re-thread the bobbin for the umpteenth time, then sew a quilt block or two without incident.  Rinse and repeat.

Until last week.

I was making a rag baby quilt, and had just about had it with Frankenmachine.  It was hitching every single time I started a new seam, and something had shifted out of alignment because it began eating needles like they were delicious steel candy.  After a little bit of a temper tantrum on my part, I called Mom for advice – what could I do to make Frankenmachine work once and for all?  I may have cried a bit.  I may have called Frankenmachine some unladlylike names.  I may have threatened to chuck it out the window.

So then we went to Kansas City (for unrelated matters, not due to any sewing machine temper tantrum). I told Mom all about how I’d managed to beat Frankenmachine into submission and finish that baby quilt, but that I was *also* just about ready to give up on machine sewing once and for all, and spend the rest of my life piecing everything by hand, until my eyes become cloudy and my enfeebled, claw-like hands can no longer grasp a needle.  Not that I was being dramatic or anything.

So then on Saturday night, Mom did a very Mom-ly thing.  She and I headed to JoAnn’s, allegedly to find some embroidery thread for Grandma.  But first, of course, Mom cruised past the sewing machine section.  And started talking with the sales clerk.  And told me to start comparing features and figuring out if any of those machines would meet my needs.  And said she wanted to buy me a new, non-Frankenmachine as an early first Mother’s Day present.

And then, an hour later, this happened:

We found me a new machine.

World, meet Hazel:

Hazel is sexy, and a workhorse.  (like me.  Neigh.)  She does 23 different stitches, has a drop-in bobbin, and can sew at a good clip for hours on end.  She’s given me no problems whatsoever, and I’ve been using her almost nonstop for a week.  Just keeps on truckin’.  Her thread never tangles, she doesn’t eat needles, and the little swirly pattern on her front sort of reminds me of my tattoos.

Clearly it was meant to be.

Three cheers for Mom, and three cheers for having – for the first time in my life – a sewing machine that truly loves me!

Tomorrow I’ll show you what beautiful music – err, baby items – Hazel and I have made so far.

“It’s not even funny”

I’m almost done with a sewing project (I’ll show you in a day or two), and Jeff came up to say hi.  I told him, “I’m so close to being done with this, it’s not even funny.”

And then I thought.  WTF is that supposed to mean, anyway?  ”It’s not even funny.”  Doesn’t that expression indicate that if I *weren’t* nearly done with the project, it would (should?) somehow be funny?

Scene:  A comedy club from the late 80′s.  On stage is a microphone, a barstool with chipped matte black paint, and the omnipresent exposed brick wall.

I walk on stage.  Since it’s the 80′s in this fantasy, my hair is in a high, kinky ponytail and my bangs are frizzed and puffy.  I’m wearing high-waisted jeans and a neon-colored top.

“Hi everybody,” I say, grasping the microphone with day-glo pink fingernails, “I’m going to tell you a joke.”

(Don’t ask why, in this dream located in a comedy club I must prepare the audience to hear a joke.  Just roll with it.) 

I lean into the microphone, eyes twinkling with mirth, and say, “I’m not nearly done with my sewing project yet.”

Then I stand back, staring at the audience expectantly (looking more than a bit like an eel).

The reaction:  dead. silence.

Why? Because it’s not funny anyway.  It’s not not funny, it’s just not funny.  Sort of like a grocery list, or this blog post.

I need to stop overthinking things.  Right.  Off to run errands.