Awake . . .

. . . at 4:30 a.m. Initially I woke up to at 3:50 to go to the bathroom. But then I couldn't get back to sleep because my unfinished homework looms over me, watching me toss in my bed. So I got up to work on it, only to find that there is no space for me to work on it. I can clean the kitchen from 4:30 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. so that I can work on school stuff that I still won't have time to finish, or I can sit here being super-tired and blog about it.

So here's a little whine for you.

My Pattern class is making me crazy. Now, I do like patterns, and I still "get it." But I spend every spare minute I have pretty much ignoring my kids, and my house, and almost not even preparing meals, so I can draft, cut out, and sew new patterns instead. This week I've only had time for the drafting of patterns; no sewing got done—a major, HUGE part of the grade each week. And between that class and the mom stuff I have to do I'm not getting any of my other homework done. I'm about three weeks behind in Tailoring—another reason I can't sleep, because that's my first class this morning. I don't have my Pattern by Measurement assignment done; I will scramble to do it tomorrow before class in the evening. I am staying up too late and getting up too early, and am generally stressed-out and unhappy.

Add to all that: one son who aimlessly stays up all night every night, even though he doesn't seem to like it and frequently complains about going nowhere; another son who dropped his core classes in school, opting to take charge of his own education instead (meaning he will study English, math, and history on his own—pretty much unsupervised, since I'm not really able to keep track of what he's doing while I'm in school myself); a husband working three part-time jobs; plans to go to graduate school (Bruce, not me, obviously) and possibly move; and all the normal craziness of life.

I ask myself, "Why am I going to school anyway?" I don't think I've ever been entirely clear about that.

I rationalize, "If we do move I'll be forced to drop the program anyway and I can learn most of it from reading the textbooks. This is what's happening in Patterns, anyway." (True enough.)

I think, "Maybe I should just quit going to classes, and fail them all, and forget about school."

Dropping out sounds like a very relieving thing to do; but this option, I think, would make me feel sad. I don't want to be a quitter—never mind the lovely example this would give my kids.

But I am drowning, drowning, drowning. I should be sleeping now, at 5 a.m. I should gently and kindly tell myself that I can't get the work finished anyway—not before I have to get the kids up, and ready for, and to school—and that another two hours of sleep would serve me better. But my over-excitable brain won't let me sleep.

So, instead, I guess I'd better go get the kitchen clean enough for me to start working.

Fashion Design

Pattern by Measurement is an interesting class. We are making our body drafts (I can't say we are drafting patterns because Signe tells us many times each week that these are not patterns—they are body drafts. I understand why. But to most people "drafting patterns" makes more sense.) The work is fun and interesting—I like it; but almost every week Signe makes me feel fat. Whenever I have a question about how to draw something, or how much seam allowance to put in, Signe will pat me, feeling the place in question (my sides, my hips, my belly . . .), and say something like, "You're a little heavy there, so . . ." It's a little disheartening. But, in spite of the little sting, she doesn't offend me because she really doesn't think a little weight here or there, or a little bit of "extra floating about the middle" is bad. "We are all different," she says, "and that's why we are not boring. If we were all the same we would look like sacks of potatoes."

Well, my body drafts are finished. I need to sew them up in muslin and see if any changes are necessary. When it's sewn it will pretty much be skin-tight (body-draft, not a clothing pattern) and, hopefully—if I've done it right—will fit perfectly. Then I can start making patterns from it. I have to make a dress or a blouse and a skirt, and I have to make a pair of pants. So I've been thinking about dresses. I love full skirts—very classic, and you can actually move in them. I'm not planning to do tour jetés in my dresses, but I do like to feel like my legs aren't tied together; and climbing into our van on Sunday in a straight skirt is nearly impossible.

Friday I googled "1950's dresses" and found some that I really like. I don't have the classic, tiny waist—far from it. But I did a "shop your body type" search and here's how it describes my figure: "Womanly. Ultra-feminine. You have a fullness through your core, arms and legs."

Right on! And much kinder than I would have been to myself. It says: "Look for clothing that draws attention to your face and elongates your silhouette. Vertical, stripes, collars and details at the neck, dark colors, flared skirts and well-fitted clothing are best for you."

So maybe the fitted bodice, full-skirt thing would be OK for me. Anyway, some of the fabulous dresses I found are scattered throughout this post. Some are vintage, some are new, retro designs. What do you think?

In the Dog House

You could say that I'm just exhausted from many, many consecutive nights of very little sleep. You could say that I'm stressed out with my new load of school work. You could say that I have PMS and I'm crampy and emotional. And you'd be right every time. But that doesn't change the fact that I am more than tired of the dog.

Things might be different if I'd had a dog that I loved before I had any kids. Or things might be different if I'd grown up with a dog; in fact I'm sure they would. Because I remember that when I was about six or seven, and we had Rocky—my brother's Dalmatian-English Pointer mix—I thought he was pretty wonderful. I sat around with him, and leaned on him when he was lying down, and petted him, and invited him everywhere I went. In fact, one winter Mom kept Rocky in the house because he had bad arthritis (from a pin in his leg, earned by chasing cars) and I remember her complaining about all the mess of dog hair all over the house that winter. I hadn't even noticed it until she said something; I just loved having the dog in the house. I know, I know; all my kids will find that very hard to believe, but it's true. I treated Rocky the way Rachel treats Tucker.

But Rocky died when I was between eight and ten, and we never had a dog after him. Well, when I was about 20 we did have Basil, a Cocker Spaniel who was as dumb as he was attractive.

So I didn't grow up with dogs. I'm not used to them. I think they are yucky. I can see why other people like them—I really can. They do that cute inquisitive dog-look-thing—in fact, they have very expressive faces, they are enthusiastic, they love to be with you, and sometimes they're kind of funny and cute. I can enjoy them (sort of) from a distance, but they are a big-old, nasty pain to live with.

Every time I begin to think that maybe, just maybe, I could tolerate Tucker (despite the piles of black, hair everywhere, and as long as his nose and tongue never touch me)—just when I begin to think that maybe he's OK, he does something that makes me want to beat him. Or sprinkle Tabasco on the trash.

Yes, Tucker has started chowing down on the trash. He tried it a couple of times when we first got him, but his head got stuck in the lid of the trash can and it scared him and he's never done it again. Until a little while ago. And now, this morning was the third time in a week. Now, if he just used the kitchen trash-can like a big-doggy bowl, that would be OK. I mean, who cares? But, no. He has to search through the can for the tastiest tidbits—like old chicken fat, empty "cream of anything" soup cans . . . You know the routine, I'm sure. And I'm sure you've seen the end results of the way dogs carry out this archaeological dig—plastic wrap chewed up and stretched to Kingdom Come, vegetable peels and scraps discarded all over the place, cans and containers strewn about. And even that would be tolerable if it was limited to the back yard, only happened once every two years, and my kids were here to clean it up. It could be set down as typical dog behavior which would irritate me a lot, but not quite make me want to kill him. But, noooo. He has to drag it down the stairs and mess up the living room too!

So this morning, as I haul my tired self out of bed to take the kids to school, in my PMS state, I am weighing which is more urgent: My zillion homework assignments, or the huge globs of dog hair stuck all over the stairs? Being a fastidious housekeeper, and not a big fan of dogs, I've been feeling irritated all week about the black hairy mess (I mean Tucker—and the hair he's shed all over my world), and I've been murmuring about the lack of vacuuming that my carpets receive. I figure I'll drop off the kids, pick up a few groceries, clean up the house, do some laundry, vacuum the stairs (where Tucker sleeps), and then get to my homework. An extremely full day.

I drop off the kids, go shopping, and get home feeling pretty darn happy that I just got 36 cans of Stephen's Cinnamon Hot Cocoa Mix for 75 cents each. That might just last month or two around here. I open the door to bring in the groceries, and there it is: slimy, chewed up, stretched out, plastic wrap hanging down the stairs; an old honey bottle dripping its last dregs on the carpet; onion roots, carrot peels, and celery ends all over the place; butter wrappers chewed into shreds and scattered on the living room floor—and, to top it off, ants coming from who knows where to enjoy the remains of the feast. Tucker knew he was in BIG trouble; he's pretty lucky I didn't kill him on the spot. He hid from me all day until Bruce got home—which was perfectly fine with me.

I admit, the thought of lacing the trash with rat poison did flit across my evil brain. But I think I'm not entirely heartless, and not vicious . . . I think. At least I'm not truly murderous. I just hate living with a dog.

Hours later, with most of my "mad" worn down, although not completely gone, I'm willing to negotiate: I won't kill the dog if my family will really take care of him—you know, like feeding and watering him and letting him outside without my having to tell them over and over again. AND vacuuming up all the dog hair Every Day. We'll see what happens.

bummer morning

Today I am tired of it all. Tired of school, tired of housework, tired of feeling unsettled.

I wonder, "Why am I even going to school, when what I really want is to take care of my home and family; to write on my blog; to do projects around the house; to have time in the evening to spend with my kids instead of on homework?

I wonder, "Why can't my family open their eyes and really see the house, and the pets, and the laundry, and each other, and take care of them?"

I wonder, "How long will we have to keep trying to survive on three part-time jobs?"

I know that really, I've got it OK. But I'm still tired of everything anyway. And what do you do about that?

What do you say . . .

. . . when there's nothing to say?

My blog has suffered since I started school. I just have nothing to talk about, except school. How exciting is that?