Ok, so I finished the Ribbon Mandala last night (dances happily all over the living room) and decided that I was going to whip the next project off my WIPs shelf and get it set up for tonight. Naturally, since my anniversary is the end of March, and since I am bound and determined to have Our Special Day done by then, I pulled that down. I got my space on the couch ready for a nice leisurely afternoon of stitching. I double checked my thread bag, I put the fabric in the hoop, I held my needle tight in my hot little hand and then I looked at the project.
And then I looked again. Only closer than before and with my eyes slightly squinting as I struggled to figure out why I’d made all those stitches so incredibly small. Then I turned on a few more lights and looked again. It’s been twelve years since I last worked on this piece, and the only conclusion I can come to is this: It sucks to get old. Ya’all, I can barely see what I did, much less what I’m doing!
Still, I am determined. I begin to slowly trace my way back through the pattern to figure out where I am, and I remember why I put this project up in the first place. There were a couple mistakes in it. Yes. Plural. Apparently, rather than pick out the error when I first discovered it, I was green enough in the hobby to think I could just cover it up and continue on. Which eventually led to more covering and more mistakes.
Twelve years later, I think to myself ‘Not a problem. I’ll just pick out the wrong and get back on track.’ So, remember I was here?
Well, after the mistakes were picked out, now I’m here:
It’s okay; I’ll get caught up again. In the meantime, while talking to the hubby, I told him I’d pulled it out and was going to work on it again. This time to completion, by Harry and by Hannah.
Uh huh, he says, in that tone. And then he adds, “I’ve decided. We can’t officially be married until it’s hanging on the wall.”
You’ve decided, have you? Funny, I seem to recall a certain clause in the marital contract that distinctly said women did the deciding, men took out the trash and said, “Yes, dear.” But that’s all right. I’ll let him have this one.
Besides, back when we were first married, I told my husband that I would not consider us officially married until three things happened:
1.) I had a real wedding ring. (I have since changed my mind on this point. Our wedding ring is a $19.95 Walmart special, but it is our wedding ring. Nothing could replace it. Anything else would be just a ring, and one which I’d probably never wear. These days when I get gussied up for special events, my concessions are to use the ‘grown-up’ hair ties instead of the kiddy ties with the marbles on the ends. And if it’s a really special day, I might put on a watch.)
2.) We had to have a china hutch.
3.) We had to have real china to put in the china hutch.
Initially, I gave him 10 years to get these three things together, which he did. With three years to spare, even. Being procrastinators down to our very soles, we were both really proud of that.
Of course, when the reality of our moving to Kansas became solid, we ended up selling a lot of our furniture (including both the china and the china hutch) in the hopes that we could leave Oregon in the same u-haul as opposed to forming our own multi-vehicle convoy. Now we either have to start all over again or get divorced. That’s the problem with ultimatums. Good or bad, you have to follow them through.
Maybe I’d better give him another 10 years.