My cape is made out of no-sew-fleece

I found my inner Peter Parker today and used my powers for good.

Our town just got a new “Super Store JoAnn’s” (a whole other blog on the irony of the word “super” linked with the corporate-controlled trainwreck of a fabric store could insue here but I digress…) and the Grand Opening (also a lesson in irony when there is nothing Grand about an opening of a fiber nightmare) has created a frenzy amongst the quilters and crafters and those who seek therapy set that truly boggles the mind. I braved the teeming masses yearning for no-sew-fleece projects and horrid cheap calicos with my boss to pick up some fabrics for the Museum’s Christmas program’s costumes.

My biggest mistake was forgoing the option of a shopping cart at the entrance. I thought it would be easier to wind our way through the mazes of too-close aisles and too-heavy people (really– some of these people need to get up from their folding craft tables and maybe walk around the block or something) with Jack in my arms. Yikes. Maybe 13 pounds ago. The kid makes for an awkward 20 lb. weight when he’s shifting from one side to the other to better see the giantesses searching for their acrylic yarns. (Shudder.) The new store is a labyrinth of every concievable crafty thing with little after-thought areas for fabric. There is, I swear, LESS space for fabric and therefore LESS fabrics then at the old, albeit smaller store. Except for no-sew-fleece. What the hell are people doing with all this fleece? Does no-sew-fleece biodegrade?

By the time I spotted my boss in the wee little pattern area my arms were aching and I was ready for a nap. Jack, for his part was happy to see one of his Museum Aunties and gave us both a second wind. We consulted the patterns for fabric yardages and went off on a hunt for the lengths we needed. HA! In a land of Sponge-Bob Square Pants Fleece and Holiday Wreath Embossed Velvet we searched for a heavy muslin (again, HA!), a nice plaid flannel, and skirt fabrics. I need red velveteen for Jack’s costume and found that at least. We filled her cart with our selections and headed for the cutting tables and found there a clump of people waiting. A bright blue light indicated a “Take-a-Number” machine (giving me the hopes that we might also be able to get deli cheeses or ice-cream cones) and we pulled number 33. They were serving 16. My boss went off in search of notions while I put Jack on the floor where he held the knees of my jeans as he does at home when he wants to “walk” with me. This lasted for about 20 seconds before he discovered the rack of ribbons at his level and happily started pulling off spools. (I had a lot of sympathy for him– A friend of mine sells beautiful silk ribbons the spools of which he has set on dowels…it’s always been a pipedream of mine to grab fistfuls of silk ribbons and see how far I can run with them till the spools run out. Kind of a MayPole for One.) I distracted Jack by dancing while I piled the ribbons back in the rack. All 19 spools. And then I put him in the cart where he sat amid the bolts quite gleefully. A multi-hued non-allergenic hayride. Yeehah.

And, in entertaining him, I entertained the crowd. It was an ugly mob when we started and, when we got to number 31, it had lightened considerably in mood… the thing is there are two ways to approach the stupidity of corporate designed fabric “super” stores: Cry/Scream. Or laugh. When they called out “Now serving #32″ we held our breaths– apparently the holder of #32 had given up. Or died waiting. The latter is certainly a possiblity. Her obese body might now be behind the large rolls of Outdoor Awning materials. They’ll find her in the spring. The woman calling numbers eyed us warily and said, “#33″ and we wooped! Hooray! It’s us! They picked us! We’re 33! We’re 33! On our way to the little cutting table around the corner (we were escorted by the number caller) we apologized to the rest of the angry villagers and told them, “We’d love to stay–but we’re 33!” I passed off my burning torch to the nice woman with the battering ram.

At the cutting table the woman there, frazzled and harassed, thanked us for having a sense of humor. Apparently she’d spent her morning being berated for the length of the wait. I asked her how many times they’d gone around the numbers and she shuddered. It’s the 50% off coupons. And the fact that there has been no non-Walmart fabric in our town now since September. People have needs. Addictions. You can’t go cold turkey like that.

The Cutter Lady made her way through our pile (Jack DID NOT like his decreasing cushions…) and chatted with us while still working efficiently (I mention this because it’s such a rarity. There used to be a lady that worked at our JoAnn’s that wanted to know what exactly you would be doing with the fabric when it left the store. It was all I could do not to make up something really, really good like, “Well, in my role as set dresser for an adult film production company…” Just cut the stupid fabric. It’s not your’s. It’s mine.) a little old lady approached with a solitary bolt of fabric in her arms. She had the look of a well fed kitty. And we crushed her when we told her that she’d need a number. She thought she’d stumbled on some secret area that needed no numbers. Ha. I took pity on her and ran to retrieve a number that was only 5 off from where we now were (assuming that it wasn’t 495 off… it’s hard to tell. Still a big crowd over in the holding area). Cutter Lady thanked me and I took the opportunity for her gratitude to ask if she resented having to a) cut ugly fabric or b) really great fabric for people wanting to do horrible things with it. She never really gave me a straight answer. I assume that it probably keeps her up at night. I know it does me when I go to the fabric store.

Tomorrow I might be the disgruntled one in line. But today I was the “Let’s Be Happy In This Together” Fairy. Yay for me.

The next time I’m there I’ll one up myself and look for the corpse of #32. Maybe I’ll drape her in no-sew fleece.

Magic Carpet Ride

This weekend the boys (sans puppy) and I drove to Indiana to see our friend Ericka (Jacky’s Auntie). She has a fabulous life there– beautiful old apartment, great job, a circle of friends…

On Saturday, while the boys napped, she and I ran into her office to retrieve a few things needed and then heard the lure of the Siren Song of the Golf Cart. She works on a very large piece of property dedicated to interpreting the past and preserving a place of green in an otherwise fast growing area. The subdivisions and strip malls are kept at a wide berth by the quiet green of the fields and woodlots and the mighty but lazy river.

It really was the perfect fall day. Unseasonably warm and sunny. Without the burden of coats and scarves we piled on to the golf cart and flew around the property along well established paths and roads and also off into leaf strewn trails that bade us to back our way out again. While we drove we chatted. And we laughed. And cried out that, “We’re flying, Jack! We’re king of the world!”

And for a brief moment on a November day so beautiful it ached we did fly. Around and around while the leaves spiraled silent down and the sun dipped lower and lower.

I’ve missed my friend. In the rush of being Jack’s Mommy it is nice, sometimes, to spot Me in there. Ericka always seems to know exactly where to find me.

A drop in the bucket!

This afternoon Jack and I were playing our usual game of Can Mommy Put Away Toys Faster Than Jack Can Get Them Out Again… and wonder of wonders! miracles of miracles! Jack put his blocks into the block jar with mine!

He has a shiner today– he hit the coffee table this morning. Now he didn’t hit the corners that have been padded but the dead center. Figure that one out… we’re still trying to. He looks like he’s been in a bar fight or at least fisticuffs.

I think the bar reference is appropriate– he might have been a little hungover from his late night on Hallowe’en. He spent the entire day dressed as a little monkey (complete with fez. All monkeys should wear fezzes. If I ran the zoo it would be a requirement.) and was allowed to stay up late for a post-Trick-or-Treaters gathering at our friends’ home. And then, asleep and snoring, we put him to bed, tail and all.

Last year he was just a tiny lump with a “My First Boo!” bib and Frankenstein booties… this year he’s a ridiculously cute little monkey. He’s still not a trick or treater. Still too little for that. I don’t understand the babies in strollers on Hallowe’en night. I hope they enjoy their heathbars?