in which we wallow in domestic bliss
Friday 16 May 2008 | 3 cookies in the jar
Thus what follows will hardly be a Friday Refrain. Y’all probably demanding, where the littachur at? And all I can say in my uncommunicative defense is that I’ve been not just sewing but SEWING. Which is such an indecent amount of fun that right now I don’t ever want to go back to school (except that they have those cool classes there….and, oh yeah, my job is there too) (which reminds me that I had the freakiest dream a few days ago; quetiapine gives one all sorts of nocturnal visions, it turns out, including this epic tale of being the Duende’s sugar baby and having him pass onto me his brujería, to the point where I manifested first my unborn trilingual son and daughter, and then all these little kontomble-like fey beings, singing and dancing and playing tambourines in a show-stopping chorus: this is what I’m telling you: freaky).
Alors! I’ve been cutting out and sewing up one thing a day, on average. So far: an ironing board cover, a matching seat cover for my sewing bench, a cactus-fabric gig bag for the Brujo (who’s gone back to Santa Fe for a show this weekend, taking it and the camera with him! so no pictures), a shocking amount of neglected mending, and of course hacking away at several quilting projects (five at last count) in various stages of non-completion. Then too, I polished all the shoes in the house, and laundered all the wool sweaters and put them away with cedar blocks. And then there are the score of quilting books and countless websites over which I pore with a fierce concentration previously unexhibited this calender year. What are French seams? How do you trace a pattern—and onto tissue, butcher/kraft paper, vellum, manila, interfacing, or clear plastic? What’s the difference between a backstitch, a running stitch, and a straight stitch? Is serging better than twin-needle coverstitching? And WHY did I never bother to learn all this wealth of wisdom from my grandmother, who was actually a professional pattern/sample maker for an actual clothing factory?! Who could drape and cut out a dress at sunup and be binding and trimming it before her afternoon nap?
Ooooh I am being awfully silly playing domestic goddess, continuing this week with curtains that will match the ironing board and sewing bench covers (oh yes—because I finally realized that blinds are UGLY)—plus I desperately want to take a six-week garment sewing class starting in June—plus my old quilting class is about to start up again, so I’ll finally finish piecing those three tops.
And there are poems, and poems, and poems. The Brujo and I went out last week to hear some touring friends play a sad little strip-mall pub here in Tartarus. Criminally, there were only about a dozen people present for D Numbers—and they themselves said the set was the worst of their entire tour; but they still absolutely tore up that woeful little place. It was so good to hear real live music, from Santa Fe at that (so wish I could be there tonight for Rrake at High Mayhem, to watch the Brujo wrangle with his kit and fling artistical sweat everywhere). Suffice it to say that I wrote a dozen of tiny journal pages while drinking watery club soda and shivering on the red leatherette seats of the nearly empty pub—like the looping, circling song-forms of D Numbers, they offer starting places, centered around repetition and circularity, trapped in mental constructions and sets of concepts, quite deliberately so.
Sewing and music and cooking pull me toward words.
For in other domestic news—I cook. Did I already tell you this, dear interwebs? I make agave nectar and jasmine rice pudding, and vichyssoise with heretical cucumbers and fresh parsley (soothing to the inflamed jaw of the Brujo during his dental crisis)—and creamed carrots, coconut flan, and assorted other woefully artery-clogging dishes which all feature full-fat DAIRY in copious quantities, thanks to my being trained by Maman, who didn’t think you were really cooking unless you used at LEAST a stick of butter every time. Also the Brujo and I have perfected seafood tacos, with my insanely fresh five-ingredient salsa and his garlic-butter pan-seared tilapia and shrimp….we’d probably outweigh Angelina Jolie and her twins too by August, if it weren’t for the fact that this weekend it’s supposed to hit 100º for the first time, and soon we won’t want to ingest anything but Topo Chico with lime and maybe, maybe watermelon or cantaloupe.
More joyful news—let’s see, I got a passel of sweet floral quilting cotton for 25¢ an 1/8th, and some dupioni scraps, at next to nothing, for the projected Scrabulous quilt top. And a heavenly draping, soft-handed piece of 4-ply black silk—just enough for a wee slip or skirt—for $9. And best of all, at the Brujo’s school, the fashion students THREW AWAY their unused fabric from the school year and I scavenged an enormous box of remnants from the dumpster. Yeah, I’m the crazy lady. This we knew already. Unchecked hoarding madness aside, I found linen, silk, canvas, cotton, leather, even spools of Gütermann thread, and slunk away feeling demented but enriched.
But enough of happiness and creativity and relief from plodding toil! I need to find a summer job—only one more teaching paycheck, and then the cold stony hand of financial reality and fabric indiscretions will descend—plus the Brujo’s dental emergency, plus getting the Korean car repaired, plus a plane ticket for Ms. Mandarin’s ordination (!) in August, plus the relatively high cost of mental salubrity. I gazed blankly and miserably for a long time at the State School job board, with all its administrative openings, which is why today I’m going to call all the fabric stores in town. I already filled out a job application for Joann, which could either be hilarious or the worst idea I’ve ever had, on many levels. The Brujo darkly warns against retail, and predicts that I will wind up on the carpet at the end of my shift, moaning and writhing. To this I say just one word: DISCOUNT. Put in your preorders for organic cotton jersey, pinking shears, and bamboo batting! Surely I can deal with cranky middle-class middle-aged craft-maddened women, if fabric is in the offing….
True, I was given a summer fellowship by the State School with the very intention that I would not work a dumb job. But I’m clutching onto that measly $7K like it’ll never come back if we use it for indulgences like rent and bills and groceries…which is probably true. Besides, don’t smart people say it’s important to have savings? Or should I just spend profligately, doing my own small but manful part to pump up the deflated economy?
Then too, if I get a summer job, maybe I can save up enough extra for a washing machine—for while Flipper and I agree wholeheartedly that the lavandería is an important source of social reality-check, as well as a total hoot, it’s almost impossible to find time for going there during the school year—which is why the Brujo and I wind up doing all the laundry every six weeks, which is not so very hygenic, probably. Also the rough-and-tumble, water-guzzling commercial washers are gobbling my delicate quilting cottons. And the B. will be teaching full-time this fall, which is going to require major adjustment on everyone’s part. Well, not yours, maybe; but ours. He even alleges that he will stop smoking (?!).
Quetiapine treats me pretty fairly, though I immediately go into a coma after I take it every night—they should off-label the stuff for insomnia because it works better than Rozerem, Lunesta and Ativan all washed down with a sidecar of bourbon. The New Temporary Pdoc and I agree that it probably needs a couple of weeks, to really give it a fair shake as far as mood stabilizing goes. In the meantime the aripiprazole-induced tardive dyskinesia seems to be wearing off, which is a huge relief. Nasty side-effect, that one.
Yet I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t feeling guilty, so of course, there’s beaucoup de yard work undone, and even worse, 120 emails in the unanswered file.
But, you know, they can answer my emails when I’m dead. It’s summer and I’m sewing. (Bad conscience about crucial thank-yous left unwritten, though—hopefully this week will be the week for that. Also to get the car inspected/registered, and a driver’s license, and the taxes done….berc.)
Finalemente, to top it all off with a marischino cherry—Pyewacket is, as you can see, dead chuffed about my being home all day.
No, seriously! That’s her happy face! What, you can’t tell?
3 cookies in the jar
post your glowing encomium (or bitter philippic) »
Follow this heated, lively discussion through its very own feed; also, you can pingback or trackback from your own doubtlessly much more interesting site.
Patiently awaiting photos of sewing projects, we wonder if it’s truly dichotomous communicating or sewing, or if it doesn’t become communicating by sewing. Sometimes a needle is just a needle? In any event, the Oregon chapter of the Unreliable Fanclub is grateful for news of any sort and confirmations of well-being. Lots of love.
Ed.: And you know what I’ve been finding out? Were you aware that Portland is FABRIC STORE MECCA?!? I feel an extended uninvited couch-stay coming on….
So, so, so excited about lots of this, but right quick-like: D Numbers! doesn’t it make you swell with pride?
Editor: I know right?!? and, even better was that their flyer outside the club had a pithy blurb from you! and I got excitable, poking the Brujo and being all LOOKY LOOKY OMG WE KNOW HER HOW COOL IS THIS. You and Miss Bovary *totally* shoulda been there. Or better yet, we all shoulda been at HM (which apparently got an unexpected visit from the fire marshall tonight? and they had to stand the overpacked audience OUTSIDE while the band played INSIDE? ah, our weird little ersatz mountain hometown….).
Hahaha! I can imagine that scene so very well. It is a little sad because these days, half the fun is eyeballing their 50 million miles of cords and giant piles of precariously stacked equipment.
Also, one time after I interviewed Chan Marshall (Cat Power), I googled her to get some info and stumbled upon an interview in which she mentioned me and my heart went !!!!! and I felt like I might die of coolness on the spot. Of course, that went away, but it was a moment.
Anyway, MB and I have seen them twice in Dallas and it was the best.