Waving the white flag

Dear Southern Women,

Help a rookie out. I knew that I would need a clothing allowance to move here, and I agreed to keep my eyebrows and hair well under control at all times. But honestly, how was I to know that all of my pool gear, down to my monogrammed flip-flops, had to match? That my Nationals baseball hat of many summers worth of love was now unworthy of me? And my beach towels, new but unmonogrammed, would make me want to flee to the nearest cabana and hang my head in shame?

And furthermore, could all of you eat an Oreo? Perhaps a package of them? Good grief, people, you're not all married to a plastic surgeon - how in the world are you all blemish and stretch-mark free? And the fact that one of you wore a belt during pregnancy just smacks of wrongness.

And the names - heaven help us, is there a child in this town without a last name for their first name? How on earth do you call your child "Freidman" without bursting into laughter? I mean, honestly, I've heard Harris, and Miller, and Mary-Smith Lasley, but Freidman?

Just send me a checklist, I beg you. I can't take the shame.

Fondly,
The New Girl

We joined the country club last week, and I was woefully unprepared. The girls, however, were incredibly nice. Nice enough that I almost feel guilty for this. Almost.

One foot in front of the other...

Slowly and steadily on quilt 1, to be given to my nephew Ian, who was 2 this year. I'm sticking by my "quilts before Kindergarten" time limit, so I can't be that late, can I? It's a "crazy 9-patch", inspired by Jennie over at AllSorts - it's easier than it looks to put together, and you never know exactly what the squares will look like until you've trimmed them down.

This quilt is also forcing me to use up some fabric stash, since no matter what fabric emergency befalls me, there is no immediate fix in town. While there are many advantages to living in a small town, lack of craft access isn't one of them. It's been good in some ways, and forces me to make do with what I have. This isn't to say I haven't been browsing online for solutions, but for now, in order to finish, I'll shop locally.

1/2 quilt down, 2 1/2 to go. Started your project yet?

Sound the alarm

As much as I like being alone, I would indeed like my family to have some friends - so say you're at a dinner party, the kids are getting along brilliantly, you even like both halves of the couple - pretty much the friendship trifecta, if you will.

What, then, is appropriate compensation for the dead classroom pet gerbil that you find after the children have been playing with them? And this, after you find your son running naked through the house while changing clothes? There was not a trap door large enough for me to escape through, let me assure you.

Dear heavens, we may never have friends in this place. At the very least, there will have to be a warning bulletin sent out before we arrive for dinner parties. "Hide your pets - the M family is coming to dinner." (And do we send our own signs with the RSVP, or let the hosts make their own?)

Honestly, a dead gerbil and a naked child in one evening. What are the odds?

As she travels badly

Happiness, they say is a decision. You can choose to be happy, or choose to let everything bother you. People in airports, apparently, have not been notified of this. And they are turning into bitter old crones while their flights get canceled and delayed, leaving them stranded without a steady source of Diet Coke and magazines.

Oh wait, that was me.

I took my monthly business trip this week, in the midst of thunderstorm season, which any seasoned traveler will tell you just sets you up for failure. Summer travel sets up 2 unruly groups of people to hang out together - the grumpy business traveler and tourists. Happiness is never a choice with these two - the business traveler gets pissed because tourists don't understand that a full-sized sombrero is not a carry-on item, and the tourist just can't understand why people that fly constantly know how to work the system, perhaps getting the entire can of soda instead of the shot glass.

Now I think we've established that I'm a bit of a loner, and a terrible party guest, being that I can't make conversation with even the most interesting person. So imagine my surprise when a guy on my flight just starts talking to me. And won't stop. The entire time we're delayed. And what does this guy want to talk about? Like a geek magnet, I wind up chatting with the guy who invented some Internet messaging language that basically makes the Internet possible at all. Was I dressed that badly?

The entire time I talked to him, it was apparent - some people are just happiest being miserable. This guy complained about the airline, the constant travel of his job, his clients, his teenage children... I think the only thing he didn't complain about was, well.... nothing. And he was the sunniest computer nerd I've ever met, but all the guy did was complain. How do those two things mix? He was a bit like Oscar the grouch on too much caffiene - cranky as all get out, but happily so - complaints with a smile.

Back at home this week, try to choose the happy accident instead of the catastrophe.

Summer School

I am one of those people who collects the ingredients to something long, long before I'll actually use them. I have plans, you see. One day, I'll make things, bake things, maybe even use some of those things. But for now, the collections are mocking me. Openly.

When I packed my house to move, I cut my fabric stash in half, and still had 4 boxes. And that doesn't even remotely include all of the other craft crap that lives here. After a while of unloading, even my husband, who is charitable, was ready to evict us, my collections and I. "How in the name of all that is rational can you ever use all that stuff?" he pondered. Even the movers were perplexed. And how did it fit in the old room? There was only one closet, you see, and how in the hell did she cram all of that in there? There quickly came a buying moratorium from management.

I started, years ago, making a quilt for each new child that entered the M family. How I thought I'd keep up with a large network of nieces and nephews, I'm not sure, but suffice it to say I'm 3 quilts behind, about to be 4. (7 if you include my own pack, who don't have quilts from me either. There's therapy for that, right?) I have stacks of fabric laid out, even, but the will to cut into them isn't there. I like that fabric. And I certainly have enough of it, it's not for lack of coordinating backing or anything.

Honestly? I am feeling pressure from the Internets to make something spectacular. There are plenty of ideas, there are even plenty of bad quilts out there. But mine? They must be wonderful, and stylish, and worthy of the bundle of miracles that will receive them. I am nervous and whiny and looking for an excuse to procrastinate. They are not in college yet, there is still time. It can wait until I find the perfect idea or piece of Japanese fabric. (And the pressure is self-induced, I assure you.)

But I look around me, at this old house with the uneven floors, and wonder - did the woman who sat in this studio, then likely a sleeping porch, feel this way? Probably not, I'm guessing. Her quilt had to be warm, and functional, and comfortable for her family. Useful trumped stylish every time. And there was no luxury in hoarding the stash, fabric was pricey, and there were clothes to be made. There was indeed intent, and beauty, but it just had to be finished. Enough whining already.

So down goes the gauntlet. 3 quilts by the end of summer. Bound, wrapped, and mailed, at least, by Labor Day.

Anyone else got a project they've been procrastinating on?

No, seriously.

This week's sign of the apocalypse? People are being nice to each other. And are worried about manners enough to make a reality show about them. No really, I swear. I've seen it.

Case in point - at the beach last weekend, I'm standing in line with my cart piled high, and notice a guy (we'll call him Bob) waiting with a gallon of milk. All of the lines are packed - it's arrival night at the beach, and we must.have.beer for the weekend. The line Bob was in was particularly slow moving, since the kid (we'll call him Skip) in front on him apparently was testing the structural integrity of hit cart, judging by the amount of stuff in there. Skip turns to Bob, and says (wait for it)

"I'll get your milk - just scan it, and that way you can be on your way."

No, seriously. Skip bought the guy's milk in a random gesture of nice. I love it. Made my whole night - I became more patient, the fact that the pizza guy burned my first two pizzas became easier to tolerate, and even the surly checkout girl seemed less pissed that she wasn't out clubbing.

And apparently TLC, in their effort to educate America, has started a new reality show on Manners. I kid you not, it looks like Cotillion is finally reaching the masses. Who knew? (Part of me is loudly saying, where were their parents, but that wouldn't be nice, now would it.)

Maybe if we're all nicer to one person a day, it will catch on?

One is the loveliest number....

I am not a joiner by nature. In fact, I would almost rather have a root canal than go to a party where I only know the host. The life of the party I am not, and I've learned to like being the silent observer. And as I said, most of my best conversations happen with myself, so you could say I'm having my own little party over here.

Blame my social ineptness on my lack of childhood playdates, that 3D model of the coordinate plane that I made in high school, my willing enrollment in engineering school - the nerd trifecta, if you will. Part of it is that I'm incredibly (secretly) competitive, and I need to feel like I'm holding my own in the group. Call me crazy, but being able to carefully explain the joys of geometry isn't usually considered light party conversation. And engineering school doesn't exactly prepare you for the odd cocktail party where there are no "name that programming language" drinking games.

So imagine my surprise that I am contemplating joining a group. More specifically, a swim team. And if the coordinate plane model didn't tip you off, I am not the most athletic girl around. (Just count the walking casts & crutches in my closet - I am legendary for falling over my own two feet.) But here I am, considering the offer. Even though I can barely swim for 30 minutes, I might just be willing to try and keep up with the pack - or worse yet, admit that I can't and join anyway.

On the other hand, I don't actually have to talk to anyone, right? May be the best playdate yet.

Random Tidbits

So my horoscope today says that I have a lot to say, but that the words will elude me. Apparently that should have been my horoscope for the last few months, given my ability to complete an entry. I do have a lot to say. Usually I say it. Most of the time, however, I'm talking to myself - it's impossible to actually have friends and say all of the things I feel compelled to say. Trust me on this, your friends do not need to hear that their need to color code their Tupperware qualifies them for disability. I speak from experience, and count myself down one friend with a terrible sense of humor.

The biggest thing that's happened around here is that we've moved. The job situation stabilized, and we've miraculously found ourselves in the house we've always wanted. It's a very old farmhouse, in a very small town, and came complete with wildlife, creaky pipes, and floors to make any sailor seasick. But the inspector assured us it will stand for another 100 years, so here were are, receiving baked goods from our new neighbors.

This move has been great for my husband, and for that I'm grateful, since he had overstayed his welcome in Worryville. I, on the other hand, am still adjusting. I went from a place where I had made a little nest to a place that feels like the first day of high school. You know you have a locker, and the friend or two from the summer, but it's just not your place yet. And as a mom, I hadn't quite realized that the bulk of my friends were what I've heard referred to as "school-gate" friends - people that I ran Girl Scout troops with, stood in the rain at the bus stop with, complained about selling one more roll of wrapping paper with. And with school out until August, there is no troop, no PTO meeting, no nothing. Needless to say, my kids aren't the only ones in need of a playdate.

But to counteract our moving blues, we headed to the beach for a long weekend. And, in no small miracle, I have, indeed, found the reason why people make fun of middle America. Two words, y'all - Dixie St@mpede. In a fit of rain-soaked desperation, I took my family to see the show. The horses in the show, to be more precise - anything else was a bonus viewing. My oldest saw the flyer, fell in love with the brown horse on the cover, and so I booked some tickets with my usual "how bad can it be?" attitude.

Well.

If Dante hadn't already labeled all of the circles of Hell, I would swear to you that this was one of them. (And I'm still convinced he missed one.) Picture Civil War rivalry, lighted costumes that flashed in the dark, buffalo, and pig racing. In the same place. At the same time. With no alcohol to numb the proceedings. Add in a meal of home cookin' delivered by my personal Confederate solider (to be eaten with no silverware) and you've got the entire hellish experience summed up in 3 short sentences. As I said to my husband, well, that's crossed off the list.

I did, however, have the pleasure of explaining to my children that Dolly was indeed more than Hann@h Montan@'s aunt. Because, well, she is so, so, much more. As evidenced by the gift store at the end of the show.

If I sound whiny, I'm not, really, just uninspired. Waiting, as they say, for the next big idea. And it will come, I'm sure - I just have to find my locker.