17 Months 3,594+ Hours Later

I finally finished the needlepoint I’ve been working on, daily, for what seems like forever — the one for Twin 2.

The frame I ordered is way too big, so I’ll save the reveal for when the new frame arrives and this masterpiece is ready to be presented.

There will be none for other family members, because my girls are the only ones who can appreciate possessing something made by me. Cash is the only thing the grandkids treasure.

Back in the day, when fabric was cheap ─ which made it more economical to sew rather than purchase, I made most of what the girls wore.

They loved it, bragged “My mom made this” until they hit that period in life of not wanting to be matchy matchy twins.

Leftover fabric went into quilts for the two of them, which quilts the girls hung onto into adulthood.

These many years later, Twin 2 probably has her quilt in storage somewhere. Twin 1’s quilt was stolen when, at one point during her prodigal experience, she had to move back in with me when I was living in that now super expensive heart of town building with the loft.

The quilt had been washed, was in the laundry room dryer and, when Twin 1 returned to retrieve, it was gone … stolen.

She posted a notice in the laundry room, imploring the thief to return it, saying, “My mom made that quilt for me when I was a little girl”.

No go. The quilt was never returned.

What some people do, for no rational reason, astounds me.

A neighbor in that building said, when she’d removed her clothes from the dryer, her panties were gone. No kidding. Someone had gone through and stolen all her panties.

Weird as that seems, that is something I can understand, it had a reason. The thief was probably a panty sniffing pervert — though he wasn’t likely to get much out of clean ones. But the quilt was old and worn by then, so taking it made no sense whatsoever.

Even here ... we’ve been warned to stay with our clothes as they wash and dry in the laundry room, because someone was stealing sheets and towels.

Pathetic.

At any rate, though I won’t be making a needlepoint for anyone else, including granddaughter, I did make her a doll ─ when she was little which, surprisingly, she’s held onto.

Then

Now

Laundered so many times over the years, fabric old and worn, the doll needs a hair transplant, leg surgery, not to mention some clothes.

Though, I can and do occasionally sew, I’ve grown out of it and don’t like sewing that much. So, granddaughter will either have to find a doll hospital (do they still have those?) to do the surgery or learn to sew, fix it herself. 

Nowadays it’s the easy way out for me with granddaughter, and other family members other than my girls, which is cash for birthdays ─ though granddaughter hardly needs it now that she’s married to that rich white boy, and nothing for Christmas.

Speaking of dolls, the voodoo doll has three new additional pins. One in the head for Sandra, one in each knee for Dawn the Bohemian.

That guy has made so much trouble for himself, that sticking pins in a doll with his likeness seems redundant. From what I’m hearing on the news, if we really want to cause him grief, we only have to shout “Richard Nixon, Richard Nixon, Richard Nixon” at him. LOL.

I’d essentially put all other things around here on hold last two years, as I worked on first, that needlepoint project for Twin 1, then Twin 2. It now feels strange to not have a needle in my hands when sitting on the couch watching television. 

A multitasker by nature, I’m rarely doing just one thing ─ either simultaneously listening to/watching television while crafting or reading or browsing the internet, reading blogs, or on the computer entering data into my budget tracker or playing Candy Crush or checking video on tiktok.

So, It feels strange to now not be multitasking, needle in hand, but my hands won’t be needle-free for long, because I already have my next project at the ready.

However, I’m being strict with me — forcing myself to wait until I get caught up on, first, my neglected Creative Memory Album then a few other things that require updating, because I can get lost in needlepoint and never get anything else done for another few years.

I’ve already started in on sorting photos, trying to make sense of where they belong in the timeline, and it ain’t easy since photos are cued up as far back as late 2018, with no notations as to date.

The blog is helpful in that I’ve posted activities, with photos, can scroll back, match, and get a handle on things. In fact, waking up early this morning, I began browsing old posts, beginning November 2018, looking to match photos and ended up reading those old posts, cracking myself up, as I had no idea my day-to-day existence could be so entertaining. 

So, other than completing one project, starting in on another, and continuing to workout with trainer, I’m transfixed to CNN’s reporting on the after mat of the insurrection. 

It is so interesting to see the reaction of those tracked down by the FBI. 

Talk about having one’s white privilege bubble burst. 

When confronted by the FBI, they seem so surprised to be tracked down and for why. It’s like “What? … Me? … I’m no terrorist … I’m just a regular person”. One arrestee (Rick Saccone, the former Pennsylvania state lawmaker who handed his cell phone to his wife and recorded , ‘We are trying to run out all the evil people and RINOs that have betrayed our president’) said, when tracked down by the FBI, “We were just playing, having fun”.

People died, people were injured, terrorized, traumatized and “We were just playing, having fun”?

Listening to the politicians refusing to uphold their oath of office, either out of party affiliation or out of fear and a desire to appease their racists constituents ─ so they can keep their jobs, get reelected, it occurs to me these cowards are making the same mistake No. 45 made in satisfying the few, forgetting about the country as a whole.

Forgetting about people like me, who took no interest in politics, never voted before, satisfied to get along by going along so long as going along was somewhat tolerable. But then No. 45 gave a green light to the racists to openly show themselves, to the degree where going along became so egregious that people like me had no choice but to get involved ... vote. 

These complicit and cowardly politicians are repeating No. 45’s pattern, counting on the few, their racist constituents, and can ultimately kiss their careers goodbye. There are more good people than bad and those good people, together with minority voters who, like me, are now awake, will turn out, as they did with No. 45, and vote for the opponent, whether they like the opponent or not.

Watching all the protective measures set up for next Wednesday’s inauguration ─ the walls, the show of force, my thought is it’s too late. Especially since the threat is not only from the outside, but from the inside ─ members of congress themselves.