Two bits of disturbing news yesterday.
First, if I had decided to stay in Atlanta to see Tuesday night’s opening performance of Rent, I would have likely been traveling northbound on Highway I-75 on Wednesday morning. We were on that very stretch of highway roughly 24 hours previous to that terrible crash. And that section of road was very near where we got stuck in the traffic jam behind the girls kissing on the way down.
Secondly, a local boy was arrested for possessing cyanide powder. Once upon a time, Esteban used to run a computer bulletin board system, which was a precursor to the international cyber community that we now know and love. This kid was one of the users of that bulletin board system… a sort of boil on its backside, for that matter. In fact, he had been banned by most of the sysops in the community, but he was regularly faking identities to get back online and hack into the system. He’s always been involved in “chaos” crimes, most recently for trying to hack into some cellular towers or some such. What is more, I work with his mother.
General bizarreness. I’m so accustomed to not really being newsworthy. We are very detached from the country at large, so it’s a bit strange to see points of personal reference and experience on the news. Other than cheese, bratwurst, and the Packers, that is. And maybe this general sense of isolation is not a good thing. But maybe it is. I don’t know. I think I need to live elsewhere. Green Bay is doing strange things to my thought process.
I bit the bullet and took another quilting class.
I refuse to let the quilting kick my ass. It’s like the time that I went to Milwaukee with Kim V. just to see the Blair Witch Project, which hadn’t yet made it up to our sleepy little independent movie hating town. Between Kim’s driving down in her Saturn with manual transmission and my general sense of summer malaise, I felt urpy and then was driven to nausea by either the jerky camera movements or possibly the movie in general. It’s never really been determined. But whatever the reason, I threw up in the bathroom of the Downer, threw up my Diet Coke and popcorn with real butter (not yellow oil stuff that they claim is butter). Worse even still, threw up in front of Kim V, which is a shameful horrible thing and I’ve not yet felt as though I’ve entirely made that up to her. She, of course, thought it was not a big deal and shrugged off my apologies, more concerned for my well being, which is one of the reasons I love so very dearly and consider her one of my very good friends. To death do us part. Because once you’ve cheerily talked to someone while they were praying to the porcelain gods, you’re bonded for life.
When it finally came to the area theatres, I went again. Because I didn’t want to let it kick my ass. And Kim V. went with me… proving herself worthy of sainthood.
I think I’ve written about this before. It sounds familiar. Oh well.
But that’s why I did the quilting again. Even though my table runner from last time is still sitting, unfinished in a bag in the garage. I couldn’t let it win, though. I had to get back on that horse, wield that circle of death rotary cutter, and dive back into that domestic art once more.
The Quilting Nazi was teaching it again. My quilting chica Mary and I were nervous. However, this time, the Quilt Nazi was showing her daughter how to teach the class. Her daughter who was young and hip and cool. She carried my boat anchor sewing machine up the stairs for me. I loved her very much, if not only for that reason. But then we bonded over talking about the Smurfs and I revealed my secret wish that I was Smurfette, not only because I wanted to be the only female amidst hundreds of males, but also because I just wanted to live in a little village where everyone had a job, had a place and knew what their role was. And if they got confused, they just had to look at their Smurf Identification card and read their names. “I’m Jokey… I must tell Jokes.” “I’m Harmony… I must make music.” It was actually a big Communistic, actually… probably all Marxist propaganda, directly related to the general sense of angst that plagues the children of the 80’s today. We don’t know our place. We expected to have defined roles in our little communities and a little blue man who derived great joy from making dozens upon dozens of smurfberry cream pies.
The Quilt Nazi was there as well. I picked out navy blue and white on white tonal fabric for my Irish chain quilt. I immediately fell behind Mary and the other lady because I’m just a problem student when it comes to sewing and my bobbin ran out (again!). I made a comment that I get my money out of my quilting tuition because I get to do everything twice. But honestly, I was trying super hard to make every row exceedingly straight and perfect, which I more or less did. After sewing my eight 3×3 blocks, I realized that I had just perfectly replicated the vinyl floor tile I had admired at Home Depot. Don’t get me wrong. It’s pretty floor tile. Quilt Girl only had to rip out one of my seams for me to resew. Otherwise, everything was straight and even and lovely. Quilt Nazi even looked at my squares and said “You can’t get more perfect than that, now can you?” And I smiled. There is a certain pleasure to be gained from being exceedingly anal retentive. I can see how Martha Stewart must get off on it.
Then came squaring off. That scared me last time. I didn’t get it. It was all math and three dimensional and confusing. I was an English major if not only for the simple reason that I think that part of my brain doesn’t work. It just makes me want to whine and say “I can’t doooooooo itttttttttttt!” Quilt Nazi showed me again. And then said “You do the next block.” which was the scariest phrase I heard yesterday. But I did it. And then suddenly a light bulb went off and Monte Hall revealed that there was a brand new Saab waiting for me behind curtain number 2. And I was squaring like a quilting fool. I zipped through the remaining squares and was declared a model student. Then I announced that squaring off is now my bitch. The Quilt Nazi didn’t get it, but Quilt Girl was snickering.
I feel totally vindicated. I’m actually excited about going next week. Yeah. My 16-year-old self would be oh-so-proud to know how damned hip I turned out to be. Maybe tonight I’ll make some muffins and watch Murder She Wrote, thus cementing myself deeply into the world of So Lame It Hurts.
But my eight squares kicks ass. That’s all I’m saying. They look nautical and clean. I planned on giving the quilt as a gift for a newborn, but the thought of his sticky jam hands clutching that pristine white fabric gives me dry heaves.
Note to self: stop at Target for baby gift.
Lying in bed last night
Weetabix: Oh my god… what did you eat today?
Esteban: Um….. garlic linguini…. coffee…
Weetabix: …dog turds…. nuclear waste…
Esteban: Why?
Weetabix: Your breath is foul… it is beyond foul. It is indescribable.
Esteban: You know… my farts have been very very bad today too. I farted on the couch earlier and Tilly actually got up and walked away.
Weetabix: That’s impressive. That cat stinks. That’s like grossing out a skunk.
Esteban: I know. I tried calling out to her, but she just gave me this disgusted look.
Weetabix: I mean… she licks her butt. What does that say about you?
Esteban: I almost wanted to get off the couch too and leave. I almost joined her.
Weetabix: Don’t do that in here.
Esteban: They had a certain… richness. An ass pulchritude.
Weetabix: I think it’s coming out your mouth.
Esteban: I mean… maybe I should be concerned. Maybe there’s something wrong.
Weetabix: Maybe something crawled up inside you and died.
Esteban: That’s kind of what it’s like. Like freshly turned humus of the earth… it’s got a full-bodied richness that lingers.
Weetabix: It’s not a wine, Esteban, it’s gas…. get over yourself.
Esteban: Uh-oh (muffled sound of fart)
Weetabix: Nononononononono!!! Oh god.
Esteban: Oh oh oh… that’s not good.
Weetabix: (covering mouth with comforter) Oh god.
Esteban: No baby, I wouldn’t go under the blankets if I were you.
Weetabix: You…. you….. you’re evil.
Esteban: But do you see what I’m talking about? There’s a quality there… it’s not your average ass blow.
Weetabix: Oh Christ.
Esteban: You’re not appreciating this are you?
Weetabix: I’m trying not to die.
Esteban: You’re not very supportive of my excitement. This is a pinnacle for me.
Weetabix: I’m a bad wife… oh god.
Esteban: See… it just lingers… it’s really impressive.
Weetabix: You are not to do this again.
Esteban: I can fart in my own bed. You never let me have any fun.
Weetabix: Burgermeister.
Esteban: But you’ve got to admit… that’s some powerful farting.
Weetabix: I need to go to sleep. Don’t fart again.
Esteban: You’ll be asleep… you won’t know. Give me a hug.
Weetabix: No!
Esteban: Come on…!
Weetabix: No… back away slowly!
Esteban: Why not?
Weetabix: You have foul odors coming from every hole.
Esteban: You’re mean.
Weetabix: I’m trying to survive here. Why can I still smell it?
Esteban: Uh…. uh…. uhoh… I think I feel another one.
Weetabix: Go into the dining room! Go outside!
Esteban: You’re stifling my creative expression. Meanie.
Weetabix: (still breathing through comforter) Good night.
Esteban: Don’t you want me to blow you a kiss?
Weetabix: I think you are my karmic debt.
Esteban: I can buy that.
The promised photos from Atlanta can be found in their respective entries.
