To-Do List

The Beelzebub of Bobbinhood

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments

Today was a beautiful, sunny day and after cleaning the kitchen windows – the better to enjoy the sun – I felt a compulsion rise up and overtake me.

Usually, if I eat something with a lot of garlic or shout “Out, out!” I can defeat the compulsion. Today, however, there was no stopping the Evil Demon of Fabric Manipulation.

I had decided to sew.

I’ve been down this road before. It never ends well. Well, once it did – surprising my wildest imagination, but I think that was because it was for a good cause.

 

[Since Chef Boy ‘R Mine was going to be the cutest ring bearer in the history of rings, it was only fittin’ that I have a Mother of the Ring Bearer Dress befitting his glory.]

I tried to resist today, but The Domestic Arts Demon took over.

Lamenting the misery sure to ensue, I began the task.

So much time had passed between uses that I had to clean The Thing before I could use it. As I dusted, wiped, disinfected, I cogitated on why it is, exactly, that I have four sewing machines. I used to have five, but The Ex took one of the antique ones.

I have my great-grandmother’s treadle machine. I have the portable one my mother used to sew my first clothes (and my Barbie’s clothes). I have the one a friend of mine gave me just before she died of breast cancer. And, finally, I have the one I bought at the flea market for me to use.

I had delusions I was going to master The Beast and learn, once and for all, how to sew without ending up in the emergency room, the psych ward, or in an alley sipping Mad Dog. My mother says it has a sweet stitch. I just roll my eyes at her and look for a crucifix to hang from the thread holder.

Other than the Ring Bearer dress, I have spent more time screaming at this machine than all of the computers I’ve fixed combined. (That’s a lot of ‘puters – many of them running Windows 98.)

After cleaning the Cantankerous Clothing Constructor, I got out my fabric – yards and yards of a blue I bought years ago that I intended to be a dress, but came to my senses before making the first cut. Today’s project was a simple, no frills, feather bed cover.

For those of you playing along at home, you will need:

  • Sewing (shudder) Machine
  • Fabric
  • Scissors
  • Thread
  • Feather Bed (Badly stained by coffee not required.)
  • Aspirin
  • Jim Beam

Luckily, the fabric was exactly the right width. It was a little too long, but I decided to deal with that problem at the end since I had no idea how I expected to fasten the thing.

The plan was simple – fold in half, sew two sides, stuff the feather bed in there, figure out later how to button it or zip it or velcro it. What could go wrong?

Well. It took me 45 minutes to thread the machine. [I have GOT to get my eyes checked.]

After that, I took the aspirin to ward off the coming concussion and splashed the liquor in my coffee to settle my nerves. Sure enough. The Damned Thing wouldn’t go. It hummed and buzzed and carried on like any good demon, but the presser foot would not advance – the needle wouldn’t move. Since I’ve never had a manual, I’m flying blind. I dial knobs around and flip switches and curse like a Marine just out of Boot Camp when finally it decided to play my silly game and let me sew.

I did one whole side without a problem. I gaped in astonishment. Almost always, the bobbin gets the evil vapors and tangles, breaks, snaps needles, etc. Nothing. Quietly, I said to myself, “Maybe it doesn’t know it’s me on the foot pedal.”

I started the second side. Things went amazingly well, until. . .

When I was six inches from the end, the bobbin roared curses of damnation and I spent more time sewing that last six inches than it would have taken to hand sew, but it was the principle of the thing. You know?

I took the cover and, with much grunting and groaning (king-sized feather beds are heavy), I pushed, pulled, shoved and willed it into the case.

Damn, I’m good. It looked like I had wanted it to. (I don’t have high standards when it comes to my sewing.)

Still having no idea how to fasten the ends so I can get the cover on and off for laundering, I dragged it downstairs to drape over the back of the sofa. Since painting this room, the family room is now my favorite.

After three days without heat, I had resolved that I would never be driven from this room by cold again.  Four inches of goose down and three puppies ought to keep me warm, don’t you think?

Well. I didn’t think this plan through. (Ha! Like that’s news.) The big, bulky feather bed did not look aesthetically pleasing on the back of the sofa.

It looked right stupid.

Plan B

I folded it in half, placed it in front of the atrium door where the dogs lay, wallowed on it (oh it’s wonderful – feather beds are a treasure) and hollered for puppies. The little beasties now have the Cadillac of dog beds. They’re well pleased with their surprise.

And I suppose should I lose heat again, the dogs and I can drag that thing onto the sofa and all wallow together. I’ll have to remember to wash that cover often – at least until spring.

The good news? I’m just tucking the ends under. If it’s a dog bed cover now, I’m going to have to wash it twice a week – it’ll save time if I can get that sucker out of there fast.

The other good news? I bested The Beelzebub of Bobbinhood. Let’s hope I don’t develop a sense of false competence and push my luck.

The Doors to Nowhere Somewhere

/ wvfurandroot / 6 Comments

Doors to Nowhere

I can’t, now, remember the logic behind it, but one of the very first things we did in The Barn was to put in a set of French doors on the second floor. The idea was to build a balcony. I was in my Shakespeare phase.

The balcony still hasn’t been built. I refer to the doors as the Abbot & Costello Doors, the Laurel & Hardy Doors, or The Three Stooges Door. Each of those comedic teams, at one time or another, used the gag of a door that opened to nowhere and involved a fall. When Chef Boy ‘R Mine was small, we nailed a piece of wood across the doors to prevent their opening. That piece of wood was still there when I re-did the room in 2006. (Re-did, hell, DID the room.)  Despite it being nailed shut, The Ex made a down and dirty screen for it which is still there and still ugly.  Screen doors for narrow French doors are hard to come by.

In keeping with the ridiculousness of doors  that go nowhere by way of an ugly screen, I bought the wrong kind of door handle in 2006 to replace the wash cloth stuffed into the door handle hole that had been there since 1990. HMOKeefe installed the door handle. He never questioned the selection; I am, afterall, the woman who installed her towel rods upside down because I like them better that way.  The handle was a mistake, but I’ve grown to love it.  It’s goofy and the master bedroom might be too pretentious without a touch of goofiness here and there.

Dawn

The doors lock from the inside. Makes sense, no?

I love those doors. Someday there will be a balcony.

[I can’t decide if I want French Quarter wrought iron or Deep South veranda with a pergola, or what, but I don’t have the money so the point is moot.]

The French doors are in the master bedroom which was the living room during Phase I, II, and III of The Barn’s transition to house. When we finally moved the living room, the French Door room was the dressing room and the exercise room. When I had the Happy Divorce To Me remodeling, Burl, the Handyman Extraordinaire, moved a doorway to accommodate the new bed and the dressing room became the bedroom.

I wanted to relocate because the room which used to house the bed (and is now the dressing room) has 5 windows and far too much sun in the morning. I was waking up just past o’dark thirty everyday. The sun was better utilized to illuminate the dressing table; and the French doors are friendlier to wake up to. On hot summer nights, I open the doors and listen to the peepers and enjoy the breeze wafting through the lace curtains – the ceiling fan lazily circling and going nowhere.

mmmm, nap

We had a snowstorm today with significant snowfall. I had no place I had to be and nothing I had to do.

[There’s always plenty to do, but today there was nothing pressing. As is customary for me on such days, I accomplished far more than if I had something that had to be done. I’m oppositional like that.]

Before bed last night, I draped the lace curtains up over the curtain rod so I could watch the anticipated snow fall when I woke up. It did and I did and it was a lovely morning. Eventually, I got up, drank a half-pot of coffee, and decided a nap was in order. I lazed away the morning, snoozing and watching the hush fall over my world through those doors.

I have the keys.

It’s not true that they go nowhere. They’re a portal leading to contentment and comfort. The longed-for balcony won’t change much. The doors, all by themselves, bring the outside in and the inside out. It is my place between the worlds – inside/outside, waking/sleeping, daydreams, sweet dreams, midsummer nights and midwinter naps.

The doors are no longer nailed shut. And when Juliet builds her balcony, the lock will still be on the wrong side of the doors leading to Nowhere and Somewhere and all the places in between. 

I have the keys.

Convergence and Amalgamation

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments
Wishing and hoping and praying. . .

I marvel, at times, how my life is one big goofy convergence of conversations and events that shouldn’t amalgamate, but do.

I’ve been dealing with domestic and personal chaos. Such chaos is better described as a nightmare, but I’m not in a fetal position, I’m not drinking (much), and I’m still laughing.

On Facebook, I was bemoaning the electrical aspects of the nightmare I’m living. A friend made an offhand quip to the effect of “You don’t have a squirrel living in your walls do you?”

Well. As a matter of fact, I do have something living between the ceiling drywall and the roof. There’s only a few inches between the two (barn, you know, never intended to be a house). I hear the creature rustling around most mornings and most evenings. My coming and going seems to annoy it. During the day, I sometimes hear it galump across the roof, the galumping loud enough to be reminiscent of the thunder of baby elephants charging.

Live and let live. Besides. I have no idea how to evict the varmint short of tearing out the ceiling or tearing off the roof. Ain’t gonna happen.

Today, after a morning of working at home and dealing with non-electrical crises, I go tearing out the door late for a meeting. Rolling down the hill, I catch out of the corner of my eye – something. I turn to look. There’s this huge ball of something wrapped around the main power line where it conjoins with the house wiring.

I’m late. I grab the cell, ask Dad to check it out, and laugh, remembering the squirrel conversation. I make up my mind. All this chaos is the result of some big bird roosting in my roof. Won’t this make a good story, I thought.

The disparate, the faux, the natural, the sublime.

No such luck. Dad removed the nest (and a dandy it is). Still lots of problems. Relocating the nest to my living room didn’t solve a thing aside from a decorating dilemma.

After the meeting, I rush back to the house to meet with the electrician. I’m late. He’s later. Good.

I admire the nest and try to figure out where to put it which leads me to remember a Facebook conversation I had just this morning with that same friend. The topic was: So, Connie, How Many Bowls, Trinket Boxes, Shelves, Etc. Do You Have Filled With Rocks, Shells, Dried Flowers, and Other Natural Stuff?

Dried flowers, a bowl full of rocks and shells, and a whiskey barrel - what's not to love?

My answer was lots. I don’t buy t-shirts for souvenirs; I collect Ma Nature’s leavings. [Okay. Once in awhile, I get a t-shirt.]

I have stuff everywhere. I even have a piece of driftwood that sits on the dash of my car.

These things please me.

And they’re cheap.

And they seem to fit in the unlikeliest places.

Ostrich feathers in the frame.

I have birds’ nests in the living room, rocks in the bookcase, seashells in the inkwell, pinecones in Spanish glass, and feathers tucked into a frame. Wishbones and sliced geodes hang from the kitchen window. There are dried flowers and seedpods throughout. I have tree branches in the umbrella holder (which looks suspiciously like a milk can).

Most of my houseplants are souvenirs of sorts – grown from cuttings friends gave me or delivered for one event or another.

Copper and glass and porcelain

Probably the strangest thing – and stretching the natural definition – are the copper wires sticking out of a water pitcher in the kitchen. When they rewired Old Main at Marshall, the electricians left these end pieces of wire littering the basement floor. After walking past them several times one day, I began picking them up. They were bright, shiny copper and pretty. It seemed wrong to let them end up in the trash. At present, they need dusting, cleaning and polishing, but years later I still like them.

The bird’s nest found this morning which I hoped would end the nightmare is now a souvenir of sorts. An emotional one. I’m surviving this round of insanity without needing a strait jacket. It now lives on the mantle of the faux fireplace (a giant candle holder of sorts).

The electrician just called. It’s a Big Ugly Number to fix what ails the electricity. I’m looking at the bird’s nest and smiling. I’ll remember always this day – the day I was lucky enough that my problems were such that money could solve them. Nevermind that I have no money, but how awful it is to have problems that money can’t solve. Those are the tough ones.

The nest now sits on a silk table runner I grew up with.

I have no heat except for the kerosene heater I bought yesterday. I have no hot water on the first floor. But I do have a dandy new bird’s nest, a seemingly competent and highly recommended electrician who can fix the heat and water, and a big number with a $ symbol that will get solved one way or another.

It’s all good. Or will be.