And My Crafty Afternoon

So, as you can see, I was totally in the mood to spend my day off in my P.J.'s and doing stuff I ordinarily wouldn't take the time to enjoy. In my previous blog, you saw the skirt I made from a dress. This afternoon, I did the same thing again. This time I started with a dress I bought at the thrift store.

Yes, it's a lime green tie dyed smock top long dress. I had to pay $6.95 for it at the local Goodwill, more than the brand new dress from this morning. But hey, who wouldn't pay even three times that for such a prize! However, like this morning's dress, it has issues when put on my bod.

Again, a very unfortunate style for me. (Melissa will tell you that the whole thing is unfortunate but she doesn't have my vision.)

First, I cut off the smocking. Don't worry though. I'm saving it. Who knows when it might come in handy?

Then I simply put a casing on the top edge and made an elastic waist. Voila! My beach skirt!

The only mishap during this process was that I washed the dress first (after all, it was from the thrift store). I had also bought a white, gauzy peasant shirt and I washed it with the dress. Good thing I only paid $3.95 for the shirt because it is now a soft buttery yellow! Now if I could just figure out a way to re-make the bod!





My Crafty Morning

So this will not generally be a crafting blog. I leave that to the experts. But my daughter, Melissa, told me that blogging is all about me and I can do whatever I want with my blog so I thought I'd share what I accomplished this morning.

I found a summer dress on the clearance rack at Kohl's for $6.80. Here's how it started out...

It was missing the straps it was supposed to have and also had multiple places where the tiers had torn away from the tier above. Those rips were an easy fix and took me only about 5 minutes with my sewing machine. I love a bargain and this certainly qualified. However, this style of dress does not look so good on a chunky, short, almost 60 year old woman.

Here's the front view. I had to cut off the picture at the top because I was sewing in my P.J.'s and still had bedhead. The first problem is that there is just way too much old, white chest showing and also absolutely no security that this dress would even stay in place. The side view reveals another issue...

So not flattering. It was even worse in person. I sort of looked like Sarah, Abraham's wife, in the Bible - you know - pregnant at 90. My plan was to make the dress into a skirt. I simply folded the wide smocked part in half to the inside of the dress and pinned.

Then, I just sewed around the lower edge of the smocking, stretching the fabric just a bit as I sewed. The whole project took me maybe 1/2 hour and that included fixing the places on the skirt that had torn. And here is the finished skirt...

Sorry, the picture is a little dark. Anyway, I'm happy with it and it suits me much better. I never was one for putting the girls on display so making the dress into a skirt was perfect. And cheap! An added bonus is that the smocked waist is so comfortable to wear. If I ever get out of my P.J.'s today, I think I'll put it on.

Mouse in the Dishwasher

One night, not too long ago, my daughter, Melissa and her husband, Donny, and I arrived home after work at about the same time. It was later - we'd all had things to do after work. Donny went on into their bedroom (they're renting from me, by the way) and Melissa and I were digging around in the kitchen, trying to come up with something resembling a dinner that could appear on our plates within five minutes. I opened up one of the kitchen drawers to discover that my hot pads had been chewed up into little bitty pieces and the drawer was full of mouse poop. The hot pads were no great loss. Some of them had been with me 16 years ago in Santa Barbara so I guess they could stand to be replaced. Obviously, the crisis here was the existence of a mouse in the kitchen. We haven't had a mouse for quite some time. The last time I found one it was in the trash compactor. Gross but convenient and it was dispatched quickly and quietly. We have four cats between us but the occasional mouse comes in somehow behind the kitchen cabinets so the cats never see them. Anyway, Melissa and I were on the hunt.

I emptied out the hot pad drawer, cleaned and sterilized it, threw away hot pads, and hoped (naively) that the mouse was done with me and had retired to the great outdoors. There was still the matter of dinner to attend to. I moved on to one of my junk drawers (come on, you know you have one). I must have been cooking something by then but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I went to grab a spatula but the whole junk drawer (which, by the way, is a long way from the hot pad drawer) was filled with - yep - mouse poop. Great. In case you're wondering, Melissa was still in the kitchen with me, hovering in the background. She lends her moral support to the cooking process but rarely participates. I was pretty bummed now. Hot pads were one thing but now I was going to have to wash all the ...junk. So, I opened up the dishwasher and was just going to offload the entire drawerful into my fabulous, superheated, sterilizing dishwasher and call it good.

Well, of course, you've guessed it by now. Yes, the dishwasher was filled with mouse poop. For some reason, I hadn't been too terribly surprised by poop in the drawers but the dishwasher? My brain wasn't processing. I closed the dishwasher door and then re-opened it, as if I had imagined the whole thing. Still filled with poop. At that, all of a sudden, Melissa started screaming bloody murder. I had no idea what had set her off but I didn't want her to feel alone so I started screaming too. At the same time I was looking around trying to figure out what the matter was but continued with my support screaming. (Melissa support cooks, I support scream.) Of course, this brought Donny out of the bedroom to the rescue. I started to open the dishwasher door again and Melissa directed her screaming at me! What the heck? Eventually, I realized the the mouse was still in residence and it was sitting in the bottom of the dishwasher staring at me. I hadn't seen it when I had opened the door the two previous times. Because I had been screaming right along with Melissa, she mistakenly assumed that I had seen the offender. She couldn't believe I was opening the door yet again thus allowing for the possibility that the mouse would launch itself seven feet out into the air and attack her face.

Donny was the manly voice of reason. He got us both to shut up and then armed himself with garden gloves and began to try to grab the little guy. That mouse was quick, though, and every time Donny lunged for it, it scooted under the water-shooter-outer bar (you know, that thing in the bottom of the dishwasher that looks like a sprinkler). He'd lunge, miss, Melissa would start screaming, I'd commence support screaming, Donny would tell us to shut up and then the cycle would begin again. Finally, after about a dozen tries, Donny was able to grab the mouse. Melissa and I then went screaming down the hallway while Donny took the mouse outside and, I assume, relocated it to a nice comfy home somewhere away from the house where it could safely rear it's young. The whole process was exhausting. We had to resort to wine, cheese, and tricuits for dinner.

The Picture

I have a very good friend who lives back East. She would do anything for me, I think, and on several occasions has come out here to spend just a weekend with me and lift my spirits. Last year was one such weekend. We were going to spend the whole time doing girl stuff - eating, drinking and shopping! Carole Sue and I spent one whole day in Cambria and it was beautiful! We totally played tourists. The highlight of the day had to be the first little shop we stopped in. We had parked our car, crossed the street and were just beginning to walk down Cambria's main street. We were approaching a very small A-frame building. There was a man sitting out front and he had some sort of pipe in his hands. I thought he was a plumber working on the building. As we drew near, he beckoned us inside. It turned out that he was an artist and the little shop was filled with very large and unusual pieces of art.  Ricardo proceeded to tell us his life story. He was so excited to have visitors. He spoke of the "universe" and "energy" and "destiny" and we all chatted happily as we examined his work. He did have some amazing pieces but none were smaller than a dishwasher or cheaper than a Mexican cruise. Finally, however, we discovered that he had a box filled with small prints of some of his work. By this time we were all friends and Carole Sue was anxious to spend just a little money, especially since Ricardo was so pleased to have company. Carole Sue decided that she would buy us each a print to commemorate our trip and she encouraged me to pick one out. She chose a very simple one that had a single flower in the center but I was drawn to more colorful prints. I finally picked one out that had lots of golds, brown, green, blue and red all over it.

"You sure that's the one you want?" I assured Carole Sue that I was happy with my choice. Hers seemed a little too sedate for me. Ricardo told me that he had titled my print "Casino" and he signed it for me. "This is the one you want?" I really didn't know what was the matter with Carole Sue. It was a simple 5 x 7 print. Anyway, Ricardo was so pleased with our purchases that he offered to get in our car with us and show us where we could get our pictures professionally framed. We politely declined and eventually went on our way.

When we were out of earshot of Ricardo, Carole Sue again questioned my selection. "I love it!" I was emphatic. To which she replied, "You do know it's a picture of women's private parts, don't you?"

What? Uh oh. I took a closer look. Sure enough, it appeared that I had picked out a somewhat abstract rendition of lots of female torsos. The truth of the matter, though, was that I didn't care. I still liked it. But I felt I had to give Carole Sue a hard time. "Do you mean to tell me that you knew all along but you still let your good friend buy a picture of va-jay-jays?" Carole Sue was aghast! "Don't say that word!" (My youngest daughter teaches me slang. I am so hip.) Anyway, the shock value was awesome and I spent the rest of the day goading her about it. We laughed ourselves silly over the whole thing. I told her that in memory of our awesome weekend I was going to frame my print and hang it some place where I could see it often. And that's exactly what I did. I hung it in my bedroom and every time I look at it I laugh a little and remember two old friends having the time of their lives.

A New Perspective

Last night, I watched the movie "Soul Surfer". In case you aren't familiar with the story, it is based on the true experiences of a young teenage girl in Hawaii. She is an awesome surfer but one morning, her arm is bitten off by a shark. The girl is a Christian but is, of course, struggling to understand why God allowed her to lose her arm. She thinks she has lost everything. A youth leader encourages her to step back and try to get a new perspective. She ends up going on a short-term mission trip to Thailand shortly after the tsunami. She realizes that though she will never be the same and she will always be missing an arm, God is still in control and He will bring good out her tragedy.

I've been thinking a lot about those same types of things lately. No, I haven't lost an arm but I have lost a husband (not my choice) and that was and is a huge piece of me. I haven't been single since I was 20 years old and that is a very long time ago. My entire adult life, all my adult experiences, all my memories (few though they may be due to my terrible forgetfulness), all my history is wrapped up together with a man who has now torn himself away. A large gaping wound is left - much like where the surfer girl's arm used to be. Why? What good is God going to bring out of this? I've come to understand that I am always going to feel the pain of my loss. It is legitimate, it is life-changing, it is agonizing. However, I can still choose to trust God in the midst of this and I can choose joy. For today, I'm doing pretty well. I'm working on being grateful for all that I do have and God is showing me in lots of small ways how specifically He is caring for me. Joy is a deeply-rooted confidence that God is in control. I praise God for that! I, obviously, have no control over anything! Believe me, when your husband takes off you realize that your carefully ordered life is an illusion. I can let this tragedy have one of two effects in my life. Either I will have my faith strengthened, and I will turn to God for comfort, or I can choose to become angry at God and turn away from Him. But if I turn from God, what do I have left? Then, I would truly have nothing!

I read a quote that said, "Hardships in life either will make you better or bitter. You decide which one it will be, because character is not made in crisis; it is revealed. It is when a crisis hits that we see what a man or woman is really made of. " I never wanted to be bitter but there have certainly been times when I did not want to be better either!! But I've had to try to get to the place where my future, my emotions, my loneliness and pain, my confusion, my shock, everything is in God's hands. I need to just be willing to rest in Him. What does that mean to me?

"It means that we come to realize God’s plan for us is better than our plan for ourselves. And when He leads us to a different place, it is for our ultimate good. Maybe it is not for our temporary good. Maybe it doesn’t make complete sense. But He has a plan. And we are to follow Him and comply."

That is my new perspective.

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth” (Psalm 121:1-2, NIV).

The Dermatologist and Old Underwear

About ten years ago I was having some pretty weird medical issues and no one could figure out what was going on. One of my symptoms was that I would all of a sudden blossom with hives, sometimes all over my body, other times in just a small area. The hives didn't usually last long, maybe a few hours, and then go away. I never knew when they would appear. My regular doctor referred me to a dermatologist to have this mysterious rash checked out. However, when I called to make the appointment and explained my situation, the doctor decided that it would do no good to see me unless the rash was actually present. I was a new patient to him and had never seen him before. It was finally arranged that I was to call his office when I broke out in the rash/hives and his staff was instructed to work me in for an appointment immediately. O.K. A plan was in place. I prepared my boss for the fact that one day I would just have to suddenly run out the door and fortunately my boss was willing to be so accommodating.

The day arrived! I was sitting at my desk one afternoon and realized that I was blooming! As instructed, I called the dermatology office and was told that I could come right down. Let me explain one thing for a moment. I live about 20 minutes west of town and the doctor's office was about 40 minutes south of town. In other words, I live too far away to "run by home" for anything. Why is that important? Wait for it.

I jumped in the car and headed south. It occurred to me, as I was driving, that I hadn't done laundry in a while and so consequently, I was wearing some very old granny panties with almost no elastic and they were being held up only by my pants. Oh well. My rash was on my torso and I was just going so the doctor could have a quick peek. No worries.

After arriving at the dermatology office and getting checked in I was led back to a room and instructed to don a paper gown. What? This was not that kind of office! I stood there alone, contemplating my circumstances. I realized that I had no choice. I tend to do what I am told. It would have never occurred to me to question the nurse. Dutifully,  I sat on a chair, took off my shoes and then my pants. At that moment, the full horror of elastic-less granny panties hit me. Also at that very moment, there was a short knock on the door and immediately a young man walked in. Turns out he was the doctor and he had not waited the appropriate amount of time so that I could get into the fetching paper gown (which, by the way, was looking mighty fine to me about now). To add insult to injury, he was absolutely drop dead gorgeous. I'm pretty sure he moonlighted as a male model. He was very friendly and nonchalantly asked me to just stand up right where I was. Uh oh.

If I stood would my panties end up around my ankles? Or, when he saw these grotesque panties would I wish they were down around my ankles? The rest of the appointment was a blur. As soon as I could, I ran from that office, drove straight home and threw away all my old undies.