Hexagons.

Almost 2 years ago I learnt to hand sew hexagons at Bronnie's.

The pattern that you usually use to interlock hexagons is called "Grandma's Flower Garden" which for most people is meant to denote something sweet and old fashioned.
Sadly to me, it was more aligned in my head to the naughty concept of the "dried flower arrangement" often sported by older women. ;O)

So I knew I had to use hexagons for good instead of evil and having already taken 5 years to choose the fabric I thought I'd sew them into diamonds instead, thus avoiding any further smutty references.

Finding Australian Aboriginal fabric that is actually designed by indigenous artists has not been easy. And even when I did find some, my concern about who was actually profiting from it was large enough to prevent purchase.

But find it I did. And it seems genuine, to the point where I can now tell you the names of the individual artists and have access to the meaning of their stories depicted on the fabric design.

Choosing colour ranges with this type of design was really difficult, due to both their and my inclination to get excited and stuff in plenty of colour all over the place. So I simply chose the ones I liked and worried about how they'd look combined later.

Sometimes I like to make it up as I go. Free balling is my thang.
That will possibly not surprise anyone who's seen me sew.

I even thought about turning this one into the shape of Australia and then doing blue marbles around the outside for ocean...just another 3 years work, no problem.

At that point though, my neck and shoulder became so bad from scrunching up as a I sewed that my osteopath asked my what the hell I was doing to aggravate my condition.
I had so much trouble explaining that I gave up and took the quilt in to show him what he was up against.
His response was, "Oh, gee..."

Apart from one side of a hexagon that Bron did for me as she taught me, every stitch was done by me, and very few were sewn with any impatience or frustration.
I really enjoyed the mobility of this kind of sewing. I love being able to watch TV with the boys but still do something with my hands. TWSS
I miss it.

I cannot imagine how many football games were stitched into that quilt. Even more than actual hours of 19th century BBC literature programmes though.

Sometime s when I look back at my sewing, I can recall any strong thought patterns I had while working on particular sections. Running my eye over this quilt brings up thoughts and feelings related to:

• Souths
• Jane Austen
• wanting to quit a job I was very unhappy in
• thyroiditis
• starting a new business
• the History Channel
• sewing on the beach/s
• sitting on the couch at my in-laws, my Dad's and Yoga Boy's and later, in the car, at Souths games
  

Anyway, Bron is coming over next week to have a look at it and to show me how to finish it so I can hand it on to be professionally quilted.
The lady who will quilt it may even be able to quilt Aboriginal motifs onto it. I'm thinking a big dreamtime snake (TWSS) or kangaroo prints.

So, it's not even been 2 days and I feel at a loss of what to do next.
I only have 3-4 quilts to finish, but they're not TV watching quilts, so I really think that even before the day is done, that I will start another hexagon quilt.

I'm going to use the fruit and vege fabric that I bought maybe 6 years ago. I'm just busting to sew mushrooms up against raspberries up against rockmelon and then broccoli - if only to see if it can be done.
Maybe I'll make it look like the inside of the fridge or the displays at the green grocers.

And this is how it starts...

Garden variety Hashimoto's

So, yes, I've caught up on a lot of sleep - I hadn't realised how exhausted I was.
2008 was really very trying.
Health wise I felt as though I was under constant attack and had to take a leap of faith in so far as trusting my own judgement against the medical odds.
Work was a fair abomination and promises to be worse again in 2009.
So much stress.
Stress being my enemy and something I must ruthlessly cut out of my life in order to recover fully.
Sad to say, but I may have to make a few hard decisions this year.

Being told that they suspected cervical cancer in April was not much fun.
But at the time, I honestly felt in my heart of hearts that that was nonsense.

When it didn't feel like nonsense was when they were snipping chunks of my uterus out sans anaesthetic.
Or when the gyaenocologist held up the specimen jar, swooshed it from side to side to show me my own bloody, fleshy pebbles, which later proved to be perfectly healthy, rather than being about to kill me.

I wonder about that person in that laboratory somewhere in Sydney who made that ridiculous call.
I wonder whether they were just watching the clock as they had a sip of coffee and an all too quick peep at my girl cells or whether their job description allows for such glaring error?

On a positive note, the experience dredged up all manner of hidden beliefs and concerns that I clearly picked up when I lost Mum to cancer at such a young age.
It was good to challenge all that, even though it was harrowing.

Of course, the stress from all that led into further thyroid imbalance, aggressive allergies and weird and wonderful skin problems.
wtf

The conventional medical suggestions currently being offered are to cut out my thyroid, accept radioactive material into my body (with my cancer risk) and to take toxic antibiotics for the rest of my life.
Not surprisingly, these were met with the disdain they deserved.

What about the cause people?

hmmmm

That's the mother of all c words to a narrow minded doctor though, isn't it?

So, what to do instead?

Well, I went to see a doctor who works with unjamming biochemical pathways. Simple as that.

Not only was I able to sit face to face with this guy for an hour, I was able to state plainly what I thought the problem was and he was able to confirm this, as well as to explain in great detail, the very enzymatic reasons from which one thing had led to another and how to slowly reverse it all.

Souths supporter too.

There are not many doctors in Sydney who you can eyeball and say,

"I think this started before I was born when my mother was given a series of gamma-globulin shots /vaccinations while she was pregnant with me, due to a German measles scare," without then experiencing the eye roll, the scoff or the glazed expression.

This guy said,

"Yes, yes, in fact, I read a research paper recently, and in the late sixties, the amount of mercury and arsenic in those injections were much higher even than they are today, you would have had heavy metal deposits in your thyroid in utero as well as major dysbiosis and immune malfunction even from birth."

"And if we treat all of this?"

"It will go away."

And so far so good.

He even was so kind as to do the blood test I asked for and formally diagnosed me with Hashimoto's Disease - an autoimmune disease that attacks - guess what - the thyroid.
Something my GP had rolled his eyes and ignored for three years at least, even when the ultra sound I insisted on came back with nodules. derrrrr

Dr. Criticos very casually described it o me as,

" ...garden variety Hashimoto's, nothing we can't take care of."

Immune and thyroid.

Get out, who would have thought it?

Well, me. But then I live in this thing 24/7.

So, this switched on researcher/biochemist GP, who bulk bills because he believes in what he's doing and doesn't wish to exclude people, has quietly saved me not only one organ so far, but my sanity as well.

Quite unlike the very expensive and arrogant dermatologist who was aghast when I refused his prescription for the rosacea, and so, took the time and trouble to dictate a letter to my referring GP while I was in the room, beginning with,

"Dear Dr, Marks, unfortunately Simone is not yet willing to take antibiotics. We will wait until it becomes worse and see her again when she is ready to follow proper medical protocol."

Not true.
He will see me again in Hell.
He can stick his Braith Anasta up his arse.

What sort of person would blindly take a drug just for it's side-effect, knowing full well that it is causing chronic damage to their liver and immunity? The weakness of at least one of these being the likely reason for the problem in the first place.

And what sort of person would prescribe this to them?

The word I'm thinking of begins with a c, and it's not cause.

It is on Dad's quilt though, but in Yugo it begins with a P.

Quilts! That's what I meant to talk about when I sat down here.
And then look what happened.
Never mind.
Next time....Simone's not ready to talk about quilts just now, so we'll have to wait until she gets worse, gives in, comes to her senses...

Not on my watch.

Yazzie's dance concert.

My niece is ten.

Last night was her first ever dance recital.
And ours.

I made well sure not to sit next to Hell Boy.

As the first of perhaps forty dances began, I heard him turn to his brother, Duke, the child's father, and say,

"This is no place for the cynical."

Moments before that, I had been alarmed to see Duke glaring at the programme with furrowed brow, as his wife pointed out to him which of the dances Yasmin would be appearing in.
That's not a good sign.

I enjoyed it.

OK, listening to that music was like rubbing a cat the wrong way and false eyelashes and red lipstick on small girls give me the creeps, but I enjoyed watching Yazzie dance so enthusiastically (and well) and looking so deliriously happy as she did it.

Such a little woman now.
A tween.

But Disney music is always sure to bring on an attack of the bile for me, and the attack lasted for 3 hours, plus intermission.
This attack was possibly not helped any by the fact that we were so pushed for time, that I had to eat service station packaged cheese and crackers, a protein ball, chips and a large Freddo frog for dinner.

Anyway, I digress. The music was worse than your average mainstream wedding.

A whole new worrrrld...

Ahhh fuck, just kill me.

In fact, I would have to say that the music selection was, for the most part, more commonplace, predictable and boring than mainstream radio ever could ever strive to be.

Themed mainstream, of course, being a particularly virulent form of mental torture, still promoted and rewarded worldwide.

And if I was doing it tough, God knows how Hell Boy came through.

Commercial music is above all things, abhorrent to him.
He twitches, grows pale, starts muttering, and then comes out swinging.

I've never troubled myself to discourage this, as I know it stems from something wonderful and righteous.
Let's call it good taste.

I can't help but believe that commercial music enjoys it's success due to the fact that most people are so lazy minded as to confuse familiarity with appreciation.

This theory also explains the success of the concept of celebrity, free to air television, and organised religion.

Thank God for Yazzie, I say. She saved the day.

I must make mention of the Dad's Dance, because Jeff leant across his mother to tell me it should make it into my blog.

Half a dozen men in tutus and footy socks doing ballet.

Aussie men, mate, they simply cannot resist a chance to don women's clothing or to expose their arses to one another at the slightest provocation.

Why, just this afternoon, on our way out to pick up Dad's quilt, there was a guy in a G-string running around outside a pub to impress all his beer sodden mates in a bachelor party mini van.

Jeff believes this behaviour is a throw back to convict/colonial days when they'd all started looking mighty good to one another, and that their DNA somehow warped to accommodate this.

With this in mind, I wonder what Charles Darwin would have made of The Footy Show.
My guess is that it would have thrown a greater spanner into his survival of the fittest theory than the humble peacock ever did.

Of course, I much prefer peacocks to drunken men.

But then, who doesn't?

Exposing ourselves.

The concept of a common experience is self-deluded rubbish.

Kinda like, well, you know, even playing fields, religion and the promotion of dairy as a health alternative.

And I know all this because, once again I spent the day out and about with my boys.

First up, I had to drop in on the quilting lady and organise Clair's sampler quilt to be done for her birthday.

Plus I had to ask her all about the quilting of Dad's yellow circley prick quilt.
Fantastic news there, she can quilt the first verse of Wordsworth's daffodil poem onto it, thus saving me from a thousand expletives and perhaps 4 weeks of grief.
I hate stitcheries, and I don't care who knows it.

I also have the green light to go ahead and make my Aboriginal hexagon quilt as big as I please as it doesn't need to be custom quilted at all and therefore won't cost me $400. Phew.
So, maybe I will go on to make it the shape of Australia after all.
Creative extravagance or lunacy?

And, as my uncle had safely delivered her babies some years ago, and because I was kind enough to drop her daughter's shoes at a friend's place on the way home, she even booked Dad's quilt in before I've actually finished it.
Unheard of.
And she gave me a break on the price too.

So, it seems that I am now officially a member of the quilting community.

Anyway, I was inside with Quilting Lady (and rushing) but also talking sewing and cuddling her cat, and the boys were outside dying from heat exposure, cursing my nimble fingers.

Poor Hell Boy is sick again, which is extremely unusual for him.
The heat did him no good at all.
He looked kinda frayed and wilted when I came out, which I'm sorry for, but I emerged with the weight of the world off my shoulders.

Anyway, common activity, widely varying experience.

Next stop, Rouse Hill shopping centre food hall.

Food halls are pretty close to the way I picture Hell.
Hell would have more Roosters jerseys.
There was only one there today, but it was stinking up the joint anyways.

Seriously, the very sight of those rags makes me start spitting.
Hell Boy's somewhat worse than me, but today I noticed that even calm, loping Yoga Boy was heard to mutter "cunt" or similar, under his breath.
It certainy wasn't "ohm", I'm sure of that.

Has he finally seen the light? Or have we worn him down to a nub and conditioned him like Pavlov's dog?

We split up to select our lunch and when we met back at the table, I had to laugh at the highly illuminating selections we had each made.

Mine was brown bread with avocado, turkey, cranberry, spinach leaves and cucumber. No butter.
And water.
No nonsense, make it snappy.

Hell Boy opted for piping hot Asian prawn soup in a bid to really get his fever happening, and Yoga Boy returned with a Quarter Pounder.
He immediately proceeded to scrape off the pickles and the onions, rather like a flavour-phobic 4 year old, or an average Australian adult. Same diff.

Then he remembered that he doesn't like McDonald's chips, threw them away and purchased another burger, again without asking them to leave out either of the dreaded flavoursome items.

Our final stop was Border's of course.
And coffee.

We each purchased a book, and I believe that the titles could easily be used to sum each of us up successfully.

I'm not shy, I'll go first.

Mine was the very first book I grabbed off the bargain table for $9.95.
A fine display of my inclination (and talent) for making a snap decision and sticking to it.
I like that about me.

Simone's choice = Toilets of the World.
256 pages.

I like it because it has a picture of a female urinal device that allows you to pee standing up like a man.
I would like to pee like a man.
Squatting places you at such a disadvantage.
Besides, it would be handy for road trips and doctor's visits.

Yoga Boy's choice = The Compass of Zen.

Looks sensible, seems to be about spiritual paths, yet promises, "an often hilarious presentation" of Buddhist traditions and teachings.
I confess I've never married Buddhism and hilarity in a sentence before today.
Hmm, I don't think I'll borrow that one.

Hell Boy's choice = The Grizzly Maze.

An in depth account of Timothy Treadwell's fatal obsession with Alaskan bears, and his descent into madness as he lived (and died) with them.

Oh, and Jeff also purchased a copy of Juxtapoz magazine because he liked the picture of the tattooed goat.
Fair enough too.

So, there you have it.
Three closely connected people with similar values, identical voting preferences and exactly the same address, exposing themselves through choices as simple as literature and lunch.

No butter.







PS I think this may be my fourth blog in a row featuring urine.
Go figure.

My father's daughter.

Just because I'm avoiding Dad's quilt (with pretty reasonable success), doesn't mean I won' get there.

It's not even the excrutiating technical minutia of the current stage that's putting me off, it's the harrowing behavioural comparison that I'm having a hard time dealing with.

I don't know why exactly, but exhibiting such overt Eric-like traits seems to be interrupting my concentration.
Not in a bad way, rather I make myself laugh at critical moments, thus causing me to fuck it all up.

Just consider how many little yellow circles I have to machine sew around (buttonhole/blanket stitch- aaarrrgh) before I can even think about moving on to the next stage....
I have slaved away, and I'm not even half done.

Simone doesn't handle repetition well.
She's OK with routine though.
Go figure.

In order to give you a glimpse of my mental disarray and agony, I made a mental note of my thought process during just one circley bit.

"OK, let's get this done.
Right. Fuck. Fucking thread. Shit. OK. I'll start here. Yes.
OK. Fuck, did I change the foot? Where's the foot? Poppy?! You shit little cat, where's the...oh never mind, sorry, here it is. Sorry Pop.
OK. Right.

Well this isn't too bad. Why did I put it off?

Oh fuck. Damn it. Fucking thing, that's so crooked. Maybe no-one will notice if I get an all over quilt design.
Shit,shit, it's August, I'm running out of time.
I need less coffee.

Alright,time to turn the corner. Fuck!
Why did I sew those bits together already? Idiot.
OK, got the hang of it now. Turn, turn, turn, oh fuck, that sucks. Shit. Cunt of a thing.
I hate this.
Yeah, that'll do.
Turn, damn, OK, no, that's OK. Shit.
*giggle*snort*
Nearly done. Cocksucker. You absolute cocksucking son of a monkey whore!
No, no, noooo. Fuck.
Got it.Yay. Bloody hell.
That sucked."

This is followed by a moment of smugness and then all too quickly by deflation once I notice the next 100 circles waiting for me to mentally injure myself on.

Those sneaky little yellow circley pricks.

Well, there you have it, you can see what kind of energy I'm imbuing this thing with.
Hence my general discomfort when people exclaim over the sweetness of my creations when I issue them.
Little do they know.

You can also see that mentally at least, I am certainly my father's daughter.

And fucking proud of it too.

Tischler! Tischler! Tischler!
Fuck! Shit ! Cock!

Accidentally Purple Quilt.

Ohhhh, shiiiiiiiit.

I accidentally made another quilt.

I didn't mean to, I was just looking for an excuse not to spend all day dealing with a very painful stage of making my dad's jigsaw quilt, and I happened to notice those 6 squares of various 6 inch purple fabrics from that mail out block swap which never really took off.

"Better sew those fuckers together", I thought.

But now those fuckers currently number 121 fully sewn squares, and despite the fact that I was busily cutting, ironing, swearing and hammering them through the sewing machine at an incredible pace, I had no idea who those fuckers were for.

Purple's OK. I like purple.

I thought maybe I'd make it for my friend Pam, who could use it in her spiritual healing room. Or for my 10 year old niece, Yassie.
Nah, Yasmin's a green girl like me.

In the midst of my excitement, I closed my eyes, and just tried to match the vibe of the fabric (don't I sound flakey?) with the person....MAHEB!!!

FFS OF COURSE! My friend MAHEB.
The original purple FREAK!
Going through a rough patch too. Perfect!

At that precise moment, Jeff magically appeared at the door and handed me the phone......MAHEB!

Now, I can keep a secret, but not if it's my own.
Yours are quite safe, don't worry.

So, poor thing, within 10 seconds she knew I was making her a quilt, knew that it was purple, knew that it was all deliberately sewn backwards and that I'd knicked off to the belligerent quilting cow shop that very morning in order to expand my purple stash from plenty to fucking ridiculous, thank you very much.

A healthy stash is a beautiful thing. It really is.

Then today, I scrunched up said quilt top in my new Souths bag and tootled off to work with it for show and tell.
I also took the lunch box full of lollies that were left over from the re-make of Nanna's lolly jar blog.
We had a good day. ;O)

When I said that I'd sewn it all backwards, I meant it.
Once you clip the seams, they go all shaggy and look really cool.

And when I said I visited a belligerent fabric cow, I meant that too.

She's my hero.
She has a huge quad garage out the back of her suburban house filled with fabric.
And cats.

And it's all at a fraction of the cost that it is in a normal patchwork store.

But the best thing is that she really and truly hates people.
I'm down with that.
But I find it so enjoyable to watch her try to contain her angst that I feel compelled to engage her in annoying friendly conversation, even at the expense of my own health and mental well being.

It's hilarious.
She grunts out only the most basic pleasantries with such disdain and barely disguised disgust, that I can't help but see it as the all clear to demand more from her.

I ensure that the tone of my voice remains hideously familiar and invasive. I pepper her with the type of questions that she would clearly rather lose a limb than have to answer.

And I enjoy myself immensely.

As I leave I say "OK!!! Bye!!!I'll see you soon!!!", with all the energy and moderation you would usually reserve for dropping a 3 year old at day care.

My God, she must loathe the very sight of me.
But I love the very sight of her.
It's a symbiotic relationship.

And you know what I like about that place so much?
Apart from the fabric and the belligerent fabric cow?

Usually when you buy fabric -even from Ebay, the retailer will tell you that it comes from a smoke free, pet free environment.

Nuh-uh.

At this joint, I swear to you, she often has three lit cigarettes in each hand at any one time and there are 2 cats and a dog who hang around in there and sleep on the fabric.
I have picked up bolts before only to find them covered with ginger fluffs, and lots of it.
Saves my cats time.
If I ever find a print with a coughed up hair ball, I'm buying the entire bolt. Stuff it.

The smell of stale smoke is so intense that you must wash and air everything for days to restore it to health.
And God help you if you cough in there. She lights up deliberately and stares at you, willing you to object...
As much as I hate cigarette smoke, I immediately move straight over to where she is, in a bid to confound her and her dastardly plan.
So far, so good.

* hack* hack* hack*

PS Gretchen. I in no way forgot that you are a purple girl, or that you really want a quilt. I will bring you something special when I come tailgating/Bundrenetting. Just calm down.

Progress report - Dad's Schimpf quilt.

What follows is a progress report on the quilt I'm making for Daddy's 70th birthday, which will be on the 31st of December.
So far it's title will either be That Fucking Quilt, Schimpf, or if I'm suddenly feeling horrifically racist by the year's end, The Yellow Peril.

The Yellow Peril was a 1970's quirky jigsaw puzzle that had no map, 1000 pieces which were all the same shade of yellow, was circular and as if all of that were not nasty enough, it was saddled with a rather vile and racist name, the significance of which really only dawned on me as I was sewing today.
Yuk.
The 1970's WTF?

Anyway, so I'm thinking that I won't be calling it that...


The manufacturer all but dared people to finish it and rewarded them with a certificate in exchange for photographic evidence upon completion.

Somewhere, buried beneath a million other ghastly 1970's snaps, we have said photograph. Right next to it is my dad, looking really, really tired.

But as my family has always considered it proof that my father has some sort of jigsaw OCD, we thought it best not to send it to any sort of authorities, even the jigsaw bigots.

And rightly so.

Dad has always enjoyed (and loathed) a good jigsaw.
It's something we were able to share as I was growing up. Just watching how his mind worked was fascinating to me.
Laborious, logical, methodical, compulsive, yet joyous at his task.
And stamina! Fuck me dead this guy's machine.

I used to love it when we'd do a puzzle together during summer. With the cricket day/night match on TV, fresh fruit, leftover Xmas biscuits and a cup of tea, we'd sit hunched up for hours as Dad methodically sorted the pieces according to differences I had never noticed in them. And, he turned them all over before proceeding. Who does that?!

During all of this, he would complain strenuously to me about how much he hated jigsaws, sing the occasional silly song and punctuate any other silence with, "...bowled him!" or "...bullshit!" if he happened to glance up at the cricket.

Eventually, I would pack it in for the night - probably due to a cat who was sleeping in the puzzle box lid that I was using, or worse still, on the sorted pieces themselves.
Dad would exclaim, "...bloody pussing katzens!" and "...shit!" whenever he noticed such feline misdeeds, but I never once recall him actually moving a cat. I do remember him shifting his own seat though. Perhaps this was simply a coincidence though. ;O)

In the wee hours of the morning...you know, the wee hours... when I'd stumble out to pee, there would still be the shape of this diligent creature, moving somewhat slower perhaps, but nevertheless, still absorbed in his work of finding that three legged piece with the crooked leg.

When he realised it was me geistering (ghosting/wandering) around rather than Adrian (no jigsaw puzzle lightweight himself, although not inclined to procure them), he'd yell out, "...shit, Simone, shit, what are you doing to me? Shit! This is awful."

And so it was awful, I guess.
But not to me, I always found it reassuring to recognise so many aspects of my own personality in my father. I childishly hoped I'd be able to keep them as I matured and expand upon them. I like to think I've done just that too.
I recently overheard Dad remarking to a friend that yes, his daughter looks like him, but that more importantly, "...she thinks like me."
Best compliment I've ever received. Certainly the only one I can quote.

So, in addition to the jigsaw component of the quilt, I'm planning on (probably) bordering it with two plain yellow borders that I plan on doing various stitcheries on, plus one with a printed fabric.

The first border will have the prose from a William Wordsworth poem about daffodils that Dad used to read to me at bedtime rather than fairy tales.


I wander'd lonely as a cloud... *sigh *

I love it, but to this very day, it does make me very tired.
Just call me Pavlov's dog.

Then a border of daffodil fabric.
Daffodils have a special significance in our family.
Apart from the nightly poetry readings, my mother adored them. When she died, we chose a headstone with daffodils on it for her.
Also, daffodils represent the fight against breast cancer and are in bloom during August and September the months of Mum's birthday as well as the anniversary of her death.

Finally, I'm doing a larger plain yellow border that will have all of Dad's favourite swear words on it. Well, not just his obscenities, but his silly words as well.
I'm even including the Yugoslav word for c*@&.
A family fave.
Plus his new favourite, which is taken from his second wife, Vivien, a gorgeous Maltese lady...Ma-donna!

So far we have:

• Ma-donna
• schimpf (meaning to go crook on or berate)
• pitchka (C@#& in Yugoslav)
• pfuitsch (Dad/German hybrid for yuk)
• verschlagen (from MAD magazine - I thought for years that it was Yugo)
• schmutz (Dad/German hybrid meaning to make a pig of yourself)
• goodie gums (Eric for lollies and chocolate)
• yebem te sunse (motherfucker - Yugo)
• verflixt noch mal ( Dad/German hybrid meaning damn or for god's sake - sort of)
• umdrehen (German for turn around - what he used to say when we were little kids and he'd towel dry us after a bath)
• compulsories (referring to Vitamin C tablets which he insisted we took...prescribing vitamins is genetic?)
• extra wurst (mostly German - meaning a food bonus or treat)
• hops (a command he developed for our dog, Holly, so she would jump over stuff thus saving him time and trouble)
• a good cleansing panic (Holly was a Doberman cross Rottweiler, but was a sooky nervous Piscean dog who would freak out with monotonous regularity, in fact, she would panic on command too - Dad thought it was good for her)
• sugar, scheissen, shit! (this quintessential Dadism begins with an attempt to be reasonable, but quickly gives way to common sense)
• runter! ( German for get down - often heard and ignored by cats)
• yumich ( NFI from whence this comes) it means something delicious
  
• 14-14 (his favourite football score - who has fave score? FFS what a weirdo)
• and finally, my contribution as a 6 year old...bernarner (I was asked to spell banana, and sounded it out, with what I still maintain was good success...Dad still belly laughs at this regularly, in fact I've never seen him eat a bernarner without giggling)

So, there it is. My masterpiece.
I have no concerns about littering a perfectly good quilt with obscenities because, eventually, I shall inherit it anyhow, and I like it.

When I told Viv of my idea, she pissed herself laughing and then said in all seriousness, ..."but not bright yellow, buttercup yellow."
So I'm guessing that the thought of having Yugoslavian obscenities draped across her lounge is of little concern to her so long as the colour tones in with the curtains.
And with little wonder.
Viv's surely heard it all by now, so I guess nothing I can stitch onto this quilt will come as a surprise to her. :O)
I'll try though.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..

So sew UFOs.

I finish things.
Unless I don't like them or they're for me.
But, other than that, I finish things.

These are the things I'm working on at the moment, or have abandoned for one of the above reasons.
Both very good reasons too.

So, anyway, here are my UFOs (unfinished objects) in their crumpled, I don't like them anymore glory.

Actually, the ant block is going to be for Bronwyn's June mail out. Last time I was there, a very handsome team of kitchen ants were making her kinda cranky, so I thought I'd dedicate a block to their uneasy relationship. It will be finished this week, so it probably doesn't count as a UFO as such.

The cat block is for Clair. She knows why. It is finished except the tail and maybe I'll crayon it a little bit.

The cross stitch is for Clair's bubba. It's 2/3rds finished and I only started it 2 weeks ago.
It has bunnies on it.
And we know this because if you look closely enough, you will notice (even without backstitching done) that they are losing the scrum.
That's OK. I still love them.
I now have needle holes in my right thumb and my left forefinger (in addition to my other stigmata), from stitching too much, so...

The lamby-bag with the areshole contains what will be a pram blanket for Clair's bubba. It's just that I like lamby to look full, so...

The Rabbitohs logo is mine. I was originally going to do maybe 6 or 7 of them and sew them into a quilt. But then I realised how badly it would wash, so...

The hexagons are MINE and I love them. They will never end up crumpled in that container under my sewing table.
Such is my resolve, that I did a couple of stitches in total blackness the other night when Adrian turned the power off.
They were fine.

The orange quilt, well, I'm just over orange and I never really decided what it was destined to be at all. Quilt, table cloth, cat blanket? I think it makes a fine UFO. It's ready to be pinned and quilted, but frankly, I don't like it's chances, so...

That little thing was going to be a button wall hanging, but then I remembered that I don't particularly like buttons. Or wall hangings.
Hmm, nope, I got no plans for it, so...

The larger checked thing was made just to see whether I could make a whole quilt out of scraps or not.
Well, I can. But apparently I don't like to use the same fabric twice.
Does that make me wasteful and shallow?
Or eccentric and diverse?
Of course, around this stage of the project, I realised that the butterfly in the corner is really pretty similar to it's ugly, disgusting, hillbilly cousin, the moth, so.....

So, is it OK not to finish things if you have a good reason?
Is it OK to sew my dad's 1974 coat buttons as aresholes onto lamby-bags from Spotlight?
Is there really a quilting mafia?
And if there is, is that where the term "made" comes from?

Anyway, I'm heartily ashamed of myself, sew...

Hello, I'm Simone and I'm a serial killer.

Hello, I'm Simone and I am a serial killer.
There, I've said it.
Let the wanky 12 step healing program begin.

And to think that I've gotten away with it for 39 years without it becoming socially inhibiting, makes me feel a good deal more proud than it rightly should.

It always takes a good friend to reflect back to you what you need to confront or be congratulated for.
And Clair is just such a person.

She has spent the last 10 months or so planning, cutting, piecing, scheming and stitching an offering for me which makes me feel joyous to my very core.

She has made me this beautiful quilt with 12 cats, each stitched with a name of 1 of my expired feline darlings on it. FFS I hadn't ever tallied them before.

Not taking responsibility for all those names either. Cripes. Certainly Fluffy and Chablis were not of my doing.

Indeed, it makes me feel as though I've been a little careless with my feline charges over the years.
To lose 2 cats is bad luck.
To lose 9 is closer to negligence.

Well, in order to remind me to pay greater attention in future, I'm planning on hanging this magnificent piece on my study wall.
Sadly, this wall directly faces Poppy's tree birds and we may run the risk of scaring the living crap out of them.
Pity then that they s(h)it right over my clothes line.
But hey, maybe they'll feel loved and protected by the 12 gay pride cats with bad names watching over them, in addition to Poppy herself.

You never know.

Does that count as all of Step 1?
Or have I already covered a bit of Step 2?

N.B. The pic of Phoebe sitting on the quilt, going in for a major arse lick. :O)

Ranga's Quilt.

So, here is Ranga's quilt.
Ranga of course, being short for Orangutan, as not one, but both parents are strawberrically blessed.
Ranga has been kind enough to furnish me with an excuse to purchase soy babycinos at work for the last 8 months.
This is my way of squaring things up a little.

Made from 225, 3 inch squares of fussy cut novelty fabric.
And because Cath is Cath, I was able to include tattoo fabric, dancing cowboys skeletons and Day of the Dead fabric for a newborn's quilt without so much a moment's hesitation.

I'm glad I know people like that. ;O)

I even managed to slip my customary greeting/salutation of "Up the Rabbitohs!" in there.

I hope this quilt provides Ranga with many hours of fun and learning, and simultaneously frees up time for Cath and Ben. ;O)

I also hope it plays a part in letting said Ranga know just how much she/he has already been loved even before making an earthly appearance.

I enjoyed every stitch of this project. Except that one at the end when I pricked my finger (snort, giggle, I said prick)

Vive la Ranga!