Blah and Blech and Ptooey!

My sister is coming up on her 10th anniversary this week. I finally dug out the quit I started as a *cough* wedding present and finished the top. I had to use the tiny Singer sewing machine my LMIL sent Hannah for her birthday to put the border on, and it worked like a charm. Putting the back on has been somewhat of a challenge, though. First I tried spreading everything out on the floor, but I just couldn’t get it to lie smooth. It was a little easier to layer the parts on our rectangular table with the sides hanging over the edges. I followed the directions in the Reader’s Digest Complete Guide to Needlework (my grandmother swears it is too hard to learn from other people and gave me this extensive book) and started basting the layers together. (Note to LMIL: did you really just pin your quilts together while you were quilting on them? John says yes.) Somehow I neglected to notice that the batting didn’t reach to the edge of one side until I had already put in about 50 rows of basting. Breaking my own personal rule, I did *not* rip out all that basting and fix it properly. I cut an extra piece of batting and added it to the edge. Which is when I also noticed that I had got the back on at an angle. Fuck! I know my (middle) sister doesn’t read this blog (LilSis--shhhh!), so maybe she’ll be so stunned by the lateness of this gift that she won’t notice the incompetence in making it. *sigh*

WesTexGirl was recently talking about her (perceived) lack of skills in the area of comforting people who have gone through a loss. I can’t recall that this is an experience that we have gone through together, so I can’t comment on her performance, but I really can’t imagine her being as deficient as she seems to think. On the other hand, I seem to be extraordinarily skilled at saying exactly the wrong thing in all situations. Lots of families are aware of inherited traits that they have to remain vigilant about, like diabetes or addiction. In my family it is assholery. I don’t think I have inherited the selfish-type of assholery, but I am afraid that I haven’t completely dodged the curse, either. Yesterday I was on the phone with someone who I had managed to upset via email (gah! the bane of my existence), and as I was trying to soothe that person, who burst into tears midway through the call (which was due to a bunch of personal factors and not just due to me (I hope)), Hannah started crying because she was having troubles with her tiny sewing machine (see above). It was definitely a Calgon-take-me-away type moment. I’m afraid I didn’t cover myself in glory, but I didn’t chew off anyone’s head either, so it was a start.

Today I had to return some library books, and they have a nifty new machine that scans the books as you return them and prints you a receipt. High-tech, eh? Except it didn’t print one of the books I returned. Someone at the front desk went into the room to look for the book and couldn’t find it, so I said maybe I left it in my backpack (in the lockers downstairs). Nope, not there either. So I am probably going to have to go back next week and find it on the shelf and get them to turn it in properly so I don’t get fined eventually (the librarian renewed it for me, just in case).

And to top it all off, I think my deodorant has quit working.

This complaining has been brought to you by the letter B and the number 12.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Happy Birthday to John! He’s very reluctantly turning 33. (Kicking and screaming is more like it.)

. . .

Recently, John said something was crap. Hannah’s response?

“Don’t say it; just do it.”

. . .

I got Hannah another puberty book about the differences between boys and girls, and she is *using it against me.* She brought it to me while I was working on the computer and forced me to read the paragraph on privacy and unwanted touching. She interpreted that to mean I must ask before hugging or kissing her. That means no more bedtime forehead smooches. And no more cheek nibbling. And no more squeezy hugs. Actually, I kind of see her point.

. . .

Hannah’s friend spent the night on Friday, so they pulled out the hide-a-bed to sleep on. True to form, Hannah has insisted on leaving the couch in bed-form. Last night she built a “cave” out of pillows and a thick comforter to sleep inside of. She was trying to figure out how she could get in since she had all the sides pretty well sealed. She liked my suggestion but couldn’t find a rope or a flashlight.

Me: “Did you set your anti-bear traps? This is bear country, you know.”

H: “Can you please be more grown-up?”

. . .

This morning Hannah was crawling into the cave while screeching and growling.

Me: “I hope you’re being eaten by a bear in that cave.”

H: “No, the bear is I!”

. . .

I wish I was wearing a hidden mic these days, because Hannah is always saying something bizarre, and I don’t always manage to write it down. Mostly she is being sarcastic and back-talking, which will probably delight my mother to no end, but we have been very careful to call her on it and tell her that she has one warning, and then there will be a specific punishment. She has gotten a little better about self-policing. And she is still a bad-language reminder.

Me: “You’ve just sliced off my ass with that sword!”

Hannah: “Don’t say the A-S-S word!”