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I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

I call myself a sewist.

It sounds respectable.
Capable.
Like someone who makes actual clothing that people wear out in public.

You know –

from fitting the pattern to hemming the garment.

But the truth is…

I don’t make clothes anymore.

Because I hate fitting.

Hemming too –

Which is unfortunate,

because at 4’10”, I have never met a pair of pants that didn’t need hemming.

Not once.
Not even in theory.

So instead, I quilt.

More specifically, I paper piece.

Give me a pile of crooked little scraps,
lines on a piece of paper,
and permission to sew things together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at first glance…

…and I am completely content.

There’s something about it.

The wonky angles.
The unexpected shapes.
The way it all looks slightly chaotic until suddenly — it doesn’t.

Those pieces feed my soul in a way the traditional blocks just don’t.

They’re pretty.
They’re orderly.

But they don’t feed me.

Right now, though, my sewing room is disappearing.

Or at least, it feels that way.

It’s being packed up piece by piece as we get ready to move,
and I have discovered something I probably should have expected:

I cannot pick up a single thing
without going down memory lane.

And at my age, memory lane is not a quick little walk.

It’s more like a slow, winding scenic route with frequent stops.

Very frequent stops.

So for now, there’s not much sewing happening.

But there will be.

I’ll be sharing the process as I reinvent my sewing space in this next chapter —
what stays, what goes, and what finally earns a place in the Third Act.

And in the meantime, I’ll start sharing some of the pieces I’ve made —
the ones with stories stitched into them.

Because every one of them has one.

And apparently…

I have time to tell them now.

Maybe that’s the point of the Third Act –

Finally having the time to take all the wonky pieces

And see how they fit together.

— Pattie

🐾 Sassy says: That room better come back with a proper dog are – including the rug Mama made for me. I do not forget these things.
Quietly Judging…at the No-Judgment Gym

I made a decision.

A grown-up decision.
A responsible, health-oriented decision.

I decided to join the gym.

Let me be very clear about something.

I hate the gym.

The gym and I have a long-standing policy: mutual avoidance.

At best, we coexist on the same planet.

I am a 4’10”, short, round, senior woman.
I do not look like the gym loves me.
I do not look like I love the gym.

But this is the Third Act.

And in the Third Act, apparently,

we make mature decisions like this.

So I went to the “No Judgment” gym.

Have you ever been there?

Because I can assure you—
people are judging.

Okay, fine.

It was me.

I am people.

That said, there were quite a few seniors there, which helped.

There were also quite a few young people.

And while I was not judging
(I was absolutely observing),

I noticed something important:

The young people were in far better physical shape.

But the seniors?

They were having way more fun.

They talked to each other.

About working out.
About hating it.
About the weather.

Possibly about grandchildren, medications,
and who had knee surgery last year.

I didn’t catch everything,
but I feel confident in those topics.

I also noticed something else.

People with very real physical challenges
still showing up.

Still moving.
Still trying.

Not to impress anyone.

Just… showing up.

And I found myself unexpectedly inspired by that.

My first visit?

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill.

I went home like I had metaled in an Olympic event
and should be met with applause and possibly snacks.

Now?

I’ve advanced.

Fifteen minutes on the recumbent elliptical.
Fifteen minutes on the recumbent bike.

That is a full thirty minutes
of mild suffering

and excellent people-watching.

I plan to add more.

Machines.
Maybe even weights.

Eventually.

Right now, the lingering effects of chemo
are still living rent-free in my muscles and back.

So we are… negotiating.

Here’s the truth:

I am slow.
I sweat a lot.
I have absolutely no speed on any machine.

And no one has spoken to me yet.

I’,m shocked too. Honestly.

To be fair, I don’t always look like someone you should approach.

But still.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect:

It’s helping.

I feel a little stronger.
A little steadier.
A little more like myself again.

So despite everything—

my official Third Act recommendation is this:

Just do it.

(I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before…)

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Judging quietly.

But do it anyway.

Because sometimes showing up is the win.

-Pattie
So… this is my Third Act

Most mornings in the Third Act start the same way.

Coffee in my hand, the lake in front of me, and a dog beside me who has very strong opinions about how the rest of us should be running this household.

The lake is usually still enough to see my reflection.

Which is why coffee comes first.

Here you’ll find stories about life after the bell — retirement surprises, lake life, surviving cancer, making things, wandering thoughts, and the observations of one very opinionated Wonderdog named Sassy.

Before we go any further, I should probably be honest about something.

This is not a lifestyle blog where I pretend to have everything figured out.

For most of my life I was working, raising a family, chauffeuring kids all over creation, and doing all the things people do when they’re moving through the first and second acts of life.

Then one day the bell rang on all that.

I’m now a semi-retired two-time cancer survivor who is still trying to figure out what retirement actually means, how two people manage to be home all the time without driving each other crazy, and why the dog seems to be the only one in the house with a clear plan.

Most days I’m just writing down what happens next.

Life has acts.

The first act is learning and exploring your world.

The second act is building careers, raising families, and generally running as fast as possible.

And hoping somebody is learning something.

The third act is different.

It’s where you finally have time to look around and notice things — the lake in the morning, the dog at your feet, the creative side of yourself you finally have time to get back to, and stories that suddenly feel more important than they used to.

You might be somewhere in that act too.

This blog is about life after the bell.

I have a feeling there are quite a few adventures left to experience.

This is where I tell those stories.

Before I forget them.

I’m glad you’re here.

Pull up a chair, watch the lake for a while, and see what happens next.

We might even raise a glass – or two.

— Pattie

🐕 Sassy says if you stay long enough, treats should be involved.
There’s Quiet… and Then There’s Lake Quiet

The town where our city house sits is… small.

Not one-red-light small…

But everybody-knows-your-business-if-you-leave-the-trash-can-out-too-long small.

Most people wouldn’t call it a city house.

It’s a quiet little town.
A sleepy town.
A town where sirens are the exception…
not the rule.

On warm summer nights,
you can hear the crickets.

When I say it’s quiet here—
can you picture it?

Because I can.

It’s the kind of quiet that settles in around you.
Predictable.
Comfortable.
The kind of quiet that knows your name.

But at the lake…

it’s a different quiet.

We live at the end of the road.
And I mean the end.

If you don’t stop,
you’ll be in the lake.

There’s no passing traffic.
No headlights sweeping the windows.
No late-night somebody-driving-home noise.

Just water.
Wind.
And whatever decides to speak up in the dark.

You can hear things here.

The soft plop of a fish jumping
from somewhere across the lake.

The low, steady buzz of mosquitoes
that always seem closer than they are.

The sudden flap of wings
as a blue heron lifts off and disappears into the trees.

And sometimes…
voices.

Just whispers of conversation
carrying across the water,
drifting farther than they should.

At the lake, the quiet isn’t tucked in.

It’s wide open quiet.

It stretches out across the water…
and comes right back at you.

Sometimes it’s so still
it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

And sometimes…

it’s not quiet at all.

Even when it feels completely still…

it isn’t.

And somewhere out there, between the crickets and the water,
I’m starting to understand the difference.

If you know wide open quiet, you’ll fit right in…

come back and stay awhile.

Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

–Pattie

The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.

If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

Type your email…
This Isn’t Goodbye — It’s the Third Act

It’s been three months since my last intentional poisoning.

Not a sentence I ever expected to say out loud… again.

Physically, I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Mentally… well… let’s not get carried away.

Some things are just part of the brand.

But somewhere between surviving, recovering, and figuring out what normal is supposed to look like now, I realized something important:

I’m ready to move forward.

Not because that chapter didn’t matter.

It did.

More than I can probably ever put into words.

But I don’t want to live the rest of my life as “cancer woman.”

I fought that battle.

I rang that bell.

And now… I want my life back.

Here’s the part I didn’t see coming:

I fell in love with writing.

Not the polished, perfect kind.

Just the kind where you sit down and tell the truth about what happened that day —
the good parts, the hard parts, and the moments that make you laugh when you probably shouldn’t.

Because I’m not a celebrity.
I don’t have a grand platform or a special talent.

I’m just me.

And like all of you, my days are filled with real-life moments —
some beautiful, some messy, some completely ridiculous.

Turns out… that’s where the stories are.

And once I started telling them, I realized something else:

I’m not done.

Not even close.

So I’m opening a new door.

Third Act With Pattie (insert link)

This is where I’ll be now —
writing about life after the bell.

Retirement surprises I did not fully think through.
Lake life (which looks peaceful but has opinions).
Creative projects in various stages of “we’ll see how this goes.”

And, of course, the daily observations of one very watchful — and slightly judgmental — dog:

Sassy the Wonderdog.

But before I go, there’s something I need to say.

Because none of this — not one word of it — would have happened without my cousin, Robin.

Robin has been writing stories for as long as I can remember. Honestly, probably since she first figured out how to hold a pencil.

Years ago, when my thoughts were getting too jumbled, she gave me one simple piece of advice:

Write a blog.

I did what any reasonable person would do.

I ignored her.

For years.

Because I was absolutely certain no one wanted to read anything I had to say.

But Robin…

Robin does not give up easily.

Even when cancer got loud — and it did — she kept showing up with the same quiet, steady belief:

Someone needs your voice.

Eventually, I ran out of ways to ignore her.

So I started writing.

And somewhere along the way… it changed me.

Thank you, Robin.

For the nudge I resisted.
For the encouragement I needed.
And for believing in me long before I believed in myself.

I am more grateful than I know how to say.

And constantly amazed by the way your creativity shows up in the world.

Writing under the names Celia Ashley, Jo Allen Ash, and Alyssa Deane, Robin creates stories that pull you in, carry you somewhere else, and somehow leave you feeling more human when you come back.

Do yourself a favor, visit her blog at https://robinmaderich.blog and get lost in her stories.

So this isn’t really goodbye.

It’s more like…

If you’ve been reading along,
if you’ve laughed a little,
or found yourself somewhere in these stories…

come with me.

Pull up a chair.

We’re just getting started… and I have a feeling this part might be the best yet.

You’ll find me here now Third Act With Pattie