Sock shoe sock shoe

Jerry has made fun of me for years.

When I put on socks and shoes, I do it in this order: Sock, shoe, sock, shoe. Always. So that if I have to walk anywhere partially through the process, my socks don’t get dirty or wet (if I end up having to go back into the bathroom after I’ve taken a shower, etc.).

Jerry puts his on sock, sock, shoe, shoe. I figure it’s more efficient to complete the task with one foot before starting on the other foot.

Of course, I wear clogs most of the time now anyway, so it’s kind of moot (NOT MUTE. It is NOT A MUTE POINT. Ugh. I hate that misspelling.), but anyway. I’m just sayin’.

So. What do you do? Sock, sock, shoe, shoe? Or sock, shoe, sock, shoe?

Is it weird that Jerry and I have actually taken the time to notice these little quirks?

Bound and Determined

So. I’ve been working on The Green Albatross, right? The quilt I started in 1992? Yeah, that one.

Well, I have had a verrrrrrrrrrry narrow creative focus for the past MONTH as I have been absolutely determined to get this quilt out of my life. In fact, my goal is to have it finished by bedtime on Wednesday, February 28 — I’m giving up the quilt for Lent, dammit.

Today I finished the last of the handsewing to conceal the seams where I attached the sections of the quilt. Tonight I sewed on the binding, and now I have to hand-tack it to the back to finish it.

That’s roughly 36 feet of handsewing.

It’s bound, and I’m determined.

So if I’m scarce the next few days, it’s because I’m drowning in a sea of purple and green as I finish this quilt, FINALLY.

Victory will be so sweeeeeeeeeeeeet, I mean it. ๐Ÿ˜€

Self Abuse

In reading other people’s blogs — and in talking to girlfriends, I have found that I am not very hard on myself about my parenting, my habits, or my accomplishments.

I’m not the best mommy in the world, but I do the best I can: my children are fed, clothed, clean, happy, and they know they’re loved.

I’m not the best housekeeper in the world (not by a LONGshot), but if the priest came to visit today I’d have at least one room that he’d be allowed to sit in where I wouldn’t be completely mortified. Probably two rooms. Maybe even three, and it’s *possible* that the middle level bathroom might even be clean enough for company.

I never have been a career-oriented woman or an activist, and I’m totally fine with that.

Sometimes I wonder why women must put so much pressure on themselves to be superhuman. Maybe it’s because I keep my expectations lower than so many of the women I know? I don’t know. I don’t think my expectations are too low, by any means… There’s plenty of room for improvement, don’t get me wrong, and I’m a chronic dreamer and listmaker when it comes to making those improvements. But I don’t torture myself if I achieve less than perfection. I learn from it and move on.

It saddens me that so many women expect themselves to always have the perfect answer, the perfect solution, the perfect life, and then are disappointed when things don’t quite work out the way they had it all charted in their Franklin Planner.

My mantra for a long time has been that when people are standing around at my funeral, I don’t want them to talk about how clean my house was or what a great job I did at work. I want them to talk about my great children, my loving husband, the love and laughter in my home, and wonder how I did it all. What “it” is depends on the observer. I do a lot. And I do a lot of it well. But I don’t expect myself ever to be perfect, because I’d forever be letting myself down.