Third Act With Pattie

Tag: writing

  • My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    My Creative Brain Was Hiding… in the Fabric

    I call myself a quilter.

    In the interest of full disclosure…
    I haven’t touched my sewing machine in at least ten months.

    And considering the fact that I own enough fabric to insulate a small village…
    that feels a little ridiculous.

    First it was cancer,
    then it was recovery,
    then it was the Great Retirement Delusion.

    The phase where we allegedly “slowed down,” despite the fact that I now spend half my life trying to remember where I put things I packed myself.

    We have moved so many 27-gallon bins full of sewing room stuff that if they were filled with water,

    I’d have a hot tub.

    But I don’t.

    I have fabric and notions and tools and machines and enough sewing-room chaos

    that if I did have a hot tub,

    I’d probably be too exhausted to climb into it.

    And even though I’m currently buried alive under “moving a sewing room,”

    something unexpected has happened.

    Every time I open another bin,

    I stumble into an old idea,

    an old project,

    or a version of myself who used to make things just because she wanted to.

    Tiny scraps from a shooting star quilt I made during the phase where I believed sewing together 1.5 x 2-inch pieces would somehow make me a “real quilter” instead of just giving me neck pain and eye strain.

    A ruler I’ve used so much the numbers are wearing off,

    which feels judgmental at this point.

    Half a bundle of fat quarters that instantly brings back a last-minute Christmas table runner…

    and a weekend where I stayed up until 2 a.m.,

    insisting I was “almost done”

    like a woman with absolutely no prior experience being me.

    A box full of blocks for a quilt I adored while cutting…

    and completely hated by block five of assembly.

    And somewhere between hauling bins, untangling extension cords, and wondering why all seventeen pairs of my fabric scissors disappear simultaneously like they’re part of an organized crime ring…

    my brain skipped right past “you should really get organized” and went straight to:

    What can I make now?

    Not what should I donate.
    Not what should I finish.
    Not what responsible adults would do in this situation.

    What can I make now!

    And then it hit me…

    my sewing room wasn’t just fabric storage

    it was where my creativity had quietly been waiting for me.

    Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling until it came back.

    Not the pressure to make something impressive.
    Not the giant complicated projects that require seventeen fabrics and a level of math I refuse to acknowledge publicly.

    Just the spark.

    That little twitch in your brain that looks at fabric and immediately starts making terribly wonderful decisions.

    The sudden belief that this might be the project where I lose myself in the creating for a while… and somehow find pieces of myself again in the process.

    And after ten months of surviving, recovering, relocating, downsizing, upsizing, and wandering around looking for things I packed myself…

    that tiny creative spark feels a lot less like “coming home” and a lot more like trouble.

    The good kind.

    The kind that ends with fabric all over the table, thread stuck to your shirt, twenty-seven browser tabs open for “inspiration,” and a completely irrational conviction that your entire happiness depends on finding one more shade of teal.

    And honestly?
    I think I’m finally ready for that again.

    So come sit by me.

    We’ll dig through fabric, make wildly questionable project decisions, and lie to ourselves about only starting one new quilt.

    Some traditions are worth preserving.

    – Pattie

  • Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Y’all, I do not understand humans.

    The cell phone store convinces them they needed newer phones…

    and then convinces them I wasn’t allowed inside.

    What the wagging tail is that about?

    So here’s what happened.

    A few days ago, we went to the cell phone store. Me, Mama, and my great niece.

    Well.
    They went.

    I was informed — very rudely, I might add — that I was “not allowed inside this location.”

    Interesting.

    Because last time I went to the cell phone store, everyone acted like I was a celebrity.

    There were pets and scratches and at least three people telling me I was “a Very Good Girl,” which, frankly, should have earned me store membership privileges for life.

    But suddenly:
    “No dogs allowed.”

    Excuse me?

    I have been to Home Depot.
    Lowe’s.
    TJ Max – oh I love TJ Max.
    Wally World.
    The bank.
    And once, against my better judgment, Hobby Lobby.

    But apparently the cell phone people have other standards now.

    So I waited in the car.

    Now before anyone gets dramatic:

    Mama leaves the air running.

    Sometimes the windows are cracked too so I can supervise the parking lot and monitor important neighborhood smells.

    And let me tell you something.

    Humans are WEIRD around dogs in cars.

    Every single person walking by looked at me like I was either:

    1. deeply oppressed,
    2. preparing a jailbreak,
      or
    3. about to give an interview about unsafe working conditions.

    Ma’am.

    I am lying on a cooled leather seat covered in soft cozy blankets

     Grooving to smooth jazz

    with climate control and

    unrestricted access to french fry smells,

    Honey, I am fine.

    Meanwhile, inside the store, the Younger Humans were apparently looking at phones.

    Again.

    Apparently the one they already had — the glowing rectangle they’ve been emotionally attached to for eleven straight months — is suddenly unacceptable because this rectangle has “better cameras” and “more storage.”

    Every year humans convince themselves the newest phone will somehow change their lives.

    And every year they still walk into poles while texting.

    I simply do not understand this generation’s emotional attachment to rectangles.

    They stare at them constantly.
    They carry them everywhere.
    They panic if they lose one for eleven seconds.
    And according to Mama, they use them to “leave messages for friends.”

    Which seems unnecessarily complicated.

    Why type paragraphs into glowing rectangles when you could just eave pee mail like civilized creatures?

    And do not even get me started on talking into the thing.

    Every time Daddy calls Mama, he says:
    “Put Sassy on the phone.”

    Dude.

    I do not understand the expectations here.

    I hear him doing the sweet talk:
    “Hiiiiii Sassy girl…”
    “Whatcha doin’?”
    “Are you being good?”

    Meanwhile I am sitting there staring at the phone like:
    …what exactly is my role in this conversation?

    Am I supposed to discuss neighborhood squirrels?
    Give updates on my snack schedule?
    Review the quality of the blankets in the back seat?

    Honestly, the entire system feels very disorganized.

    Finally,  

    and this is the last thing I’m going to say about these phones,

    why is everyone always looking down now?

    Nobody is paying attention anymore.

    A squirrel could launch an entire criminal enterprise in the parking lot, and these people would miss it because they’re busy poking glowing rectangles with their thumbs.

    Meanwhile, from my perfectly climate-controlled observation post, I noticed:
    three spilled drinks,
    a suspicious pigeon,
    a toddler covered in cracker residue,
    two unattended shopping carts,
    and a lady carrying Chick-fil-A.

    I am not saying I was the only responsible adult in that parking lot.

    But honestly, at this point, I feel like I carried the entire surveillance operation by myself.

    🐾 Sassy

    P.S. Today we went to TJ Maxx and Hobby Lobby. They had no concerns about my presence whatsoever.

    Funny how that works. 🐾

  • The Back Rows

    The Back Rows

    There are certain moments in loving a child that sit quietly in your chest for a long time afterward.

    Watching Liddle S’kiddle graduate high school was one of them.

    We are unbelievably proud of her.
    Proud of the hard work.
    Proud of the discipline.
    Proud of the long nights and early mornings and all the ordinary days that somehow added up to this extraordinary milestone.

    She graduated with honors, and she earned every bit of it.

    As the ceremony began, the honor graduates and graduates with distinction were seated in the front rows, decorated in stoles and regalia that reflected years of academic achievement. They were recognized and applauded, rightly so, for what they had accomplished.

    And their families cheered with the kind of joy that only comes from watching someone you love achieve something they worked hard for.

    We clapped proudly right along with them.

    But somewhere in the middle of the ceremony, my eyes kept drifting to the back rows.

    The students whose victories were less decorated, but no less hard-won.
    The ones the ceremony said less about…
    but whose stories may have required just as much strength.

    And I found myself wondering about them.

    How many had worked late shifts after school?
    How many had gone home carrying burdens nobody else could see?
    How many had walked through heartbreak, anxiety, loss, instability, exhaustion, or responsibilities far beyond their years?
    How many had simply fought like hell just to cross that stage?

    Several had earned scholarships.
    Many are headed to college.
    Others are entering trades, jobs, military service, or lives that will require just as much courage and determination as any university classroom.

    And when their names were called, I noticed something else.

    Their families often cheered the loudest.

    Not because they loved their children more.
    But maybe because they understood, in a deeply personal way,

    just how hard-won that diploma really was.

    Because sometimes graduating with honors is the miracle.

    And sometimes graduating at all is.

    Both deserve applause.

    And so, we celebrate all of them.
    The scholars.
    The overcomers.
    The exhausted kids who kept going anyway.
    The students who succeeded publicly and the ones who succeeded quietly.

    The ones in the front rows.
    The ones in the back.

    The graduates whose accomplishments were announced to the room…
    and the graduates whose strength may have only been fully understood by the people cheering hardest for them.

    Because every student who crossed that stage carried a story.
    And every single one deserved their moment when their name was called.

    Maybe that is what I will remember most about graduation night.

    Not just the honors and distinctions.
    But the reminder that perseverance does not always wear decorative cords.

    Sometimes it simply wears a cap and gown
    and keeps going anyway.

    -Pattie

  • Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    Domestic Squatting: A Personal Tail

    For the past FIVE days, my best frienemy Hennie has been staying at my house.

    Hennie belongs to Mama’s granddaughter, my niece.
    Which, according to Mama’s completely unverified family math, makes ME Hennie’s great aunt.

    Honestly, that feels correct.
    I do have strong opinions and chronic disappointment in other people’s decisions.

    Also, I am older. 

    Now Hennie is a white chiweenie (half chihuahua and half weenie dog?) and only weighs seven pounds, but she has the confidence of a much larger problem.

    And listen…
    I love her.

    But also?

    She is exhausting.

    From the minute she arrives, the entire household becomes chaos.
    We run.
    We wrestle.
    We bark at things that are absolutely our business.
    We conduct perimeter security like two emotionally unstable park rangers.

    At first, it’s fun.

    Then eventually Hennie remembers who she is.

    A tiny loud girl with absolutely no boundaries.

    For example:
    Hennie insists we all go outside every fourteen minutes.

    Urgently.

    Like there has been a national emergency involving squirrels.

    So out we go.

    Then the second Mama opens the door to let us back in, Hennie suddenly becomes “a sunbathing girl.”

    She refuses to move.

    Just lays there in the blazing heat with her tiny legs stretched out.  Honestly, Hennie is less dog outside and more tiny desert lizard with anxiety.

    Meanwhile it is eighty-something degrees.

    I am hot.

    Hennie is laying in direct sunlight like she’s trying to recharge herself.

    And another thing…

    When we do go back inside she steals MY section of the sectional.

    MY section.

    My special, reserved section that no human even tries to steal.

    But little Hennie has her own rules.

    She also tries to steal my food.

    Now let me explain something.

    Hennie has her OWN bowl.
    Her OWN food.
    Her OWN tiny portions.

    She weighs seven pounds.
    She needs approximately ten pieces of kibble and a positive attitude to survive.

    But every single time Mama feeds us, Hennie immediately abandons her own bowl and comes trotting over to mine like she’s conducting a quality control inspection.

    Then she eats my food while I stand there in complete disbelief.

    I swear.
    One day I am going to put her in her place.

    Probably.

    Maybe.

    Unless she barks first.

    And the attitude.

    The audacity.

    At one point she looked directly at me like:
    “Oh. Were you eating this?”

    Mama laughed.
    Daddy laughed.
    I did not laugh. 

    I was one inconvenience away from legal representation.

    By this morning, I had stopped fighting back.
    I would just stand there staring at Hennie.

    There is apparently a proverb about guests and fish becoming a problem after three days.

    By Day Five, I would like to formally support that research.

    But then…

    Today…

    We took Hennie home, back to her own house.

    Honestly?
    The ride home was heavenly.

    No barking.
    No sectional theft.
    No tiny backyard hostage situations.
    No food-related betrayals.

    Peace.

    When we got home…

    I walked directly to my section …
    turned around three times for emotional reasons…
    collapsed dramatically into my rightful place…
    and slept like a woman who had finally reclaimed her nation.

    But that was hours ago.

    And now I miss her.

    A little.

    Apparently I’d gotten used to the chaos.

    💗🐾
    Sassy


    Great Aunt
    Section Owner
    Victim of Domestic Squatting

    If you’ve ever had your favorite seat stolen by a guest, I expect your full support in the comments.

    And subscribe, obviously. Somebody around here needs to be on my side. 💗🐾

  • Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    As you know, hubby and I went away for a long weekend a few weeks ago . We had such a wonderful time with great friends.

    So this is not about that.

    What this is about…

    Is slightly alarming.

    Have you ever thought about packing to go on a trip?

    Of course you have.

    If you’ve ever gone anywhere overnight, you’ve thought about what to pack.

    For decades I have filled my suitcase – ok suitcases – with at least two outfits for each day.

    Because a girl never really knows who she is going to be on vacation.

    Will I feel all frilly and dressy?

    Will I want to give casual but effortlessly put together?

    Will I suddenly become someone who wears linen?

    Who knows?

    And of course there were matching undergarments for each outfit.

    And shoes

    Matching shoes.  Beautiful shoes.

    The kind clearly designed by people who hate women.

    And selfie worthy accessories:

    Jewelry, big colorful matching sunglasses, belts, coordinated lipsticks.

    And one wrinkled hoodie with loose soft lounge pants…

    for emotion support or… hangover recovery.

    And hubby packed the same way.  

    Not with the same precision and purpose,

    obviously.

    But still:

    this shirt goes with those pants,

    that require this coordinated belt,

    those shoes

    one dressy, one casual, because he is, after all, a man —

    And matching socks.

    Repeat for every day.

    Then add backup options.

    Back then we packed for:

    Possibilities,

    Aesthetics,

    Bad decisions,

    And absolutely nothing related to comfort.

    Now that we are both in our sixties and “semi-retired”…

    I’ve noticed a shift…

    A seismic shift.

    No more stylin’ and profilin.’

    No more “who will I be today?”

    No more shoes specifically designed for maximum discomfort.

    These days?

     Comfort is the new cute.

    And honestly…

    I regret nothing.

    At some point in life vacations became less about fearless adventure

    And more about sustainable adventure…

    with adequate support.

    Now we travel with:

    comfortable clothes,

    comfortable shoes,

    and one slightly dressier outfit that still has to work with comfortable shoes.

    Somewhere along the way, our luggage stopped giving vacation night life…

    and started giving disaster preparedness training.

    An entire section of each suitcase is dedicated to supplements:

    Magnesium,

    Vitamin C,

    Vitamins D and K
    (apparently they travel better together),

    this for hair,

    that for joints,

    and multiple items devoted to what can only be described as “digestive negotiations.”

    Mine are sorted into tiny, labeled baggies, because apparently my memory occasionally reboots without warning.

    Hubby’s are organized in one of those giant round pill dispensers that looks less like vacation prep and more like a weeklong hostage situation. 

    And of course, acetaminophen.   Lots of acetaminophen in its own family-sized bottle.

    And somehow…

    despite all of this preparation…

    one of us still forgot their extra emergency underwear.

    Apparently even disaster preparedness has its limits.

    However, we did remember:

    special pillows,

    travel socks,

    comfortable shoes,

    and enough supplements to stabilize a small rural community. 

    At that point, looking at our luggage, I realized we had not packed for a four-day weekend.

    We packed like settlers crossing dangerous territory. 

    Just one digestive issue away from circling the wagons.

    What is the deal with old-er people and their special pillows?

    There was a time in my life when I could sleep anywhere:

    on the floor,

    squeezed two  to a sofa,

    half hanging off a motel bed,

    or sitting upright in a car with one shoe in my lap (don’t ask).  

    Now?

    If my neck angle is wrong for six minutes, I need a massage.

    And the socks.

    Why do we now have travel-specific socks?

    Not cute socks.

    Not fashionable socks.

    Supportive socks.

    Socks engineered by orthopedic scientists and..

    probably Lucifer.

    Honestly, the entire trip could collapse into chaos, but if hubby’s feet and ankles feel supported, the man becomes nearly indestructible.

    I think that’s how you know you’re getting older.

    You stop packing for possibilities…

    and start packing for recovery.

    Not because the adventure is over.

    Just because you’d like to enjoy it when you get there.

    So if you’ve started noticing your own packing evolution…

    If you now pack for inflammation instead of night life…

    If your suitcase contains enough supplements to alarm TSA…

    Welcome to The Third Act.

    Pull up a chair.

    But not one that’s too low to the ground.

    -Pattie

    If you’re enjoying these stories from my Third Act — the adventures, the chaos, the questionable decisions, and apparently now… the orthopedic travel phase 😂 — I’d love for you to subscribe. (You can do that now without registering for WordPress.)

    And if you already travel with your own pillow or a suspicious number of supplements…

    trust me.

    You’re among friends.