I can't keep a secret . . .

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh! I don't often share my deepest, darkest secrets. But I have to whisper this one to you. Come closer . . . . a little bit closer . . . .

I am a slow quilter. A plodding piecer of blocks. A slow sorter of scraps. I am however an excellent ripper of seams. My seam ripper has a name. It is Jack. I can sew the most wonderful one quarter inch seam, only to have it not line up correctly, so Jack to the rescue.

It goes without saying then, that I am not a speed demon. I blame myself, really. First of all, I wanted to blame the internet because when I see all the prolific quilters online with their completed projects day after day, totes, mug rugs, quilts of all sizes and types, I wonder how they do it? Do they set aside an hour or two, a day or a month? I use a minute timer and keep myself on task by giving myself a set amount of time to help me accomplish the dailies of my day. When do they clean or cook? How do they manage the laundry and kid's soccer games? I hang my head down and ask myself, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Then I go to my sewing area and strive to keep myself motivated to not feel a bit blue. Blue? I think I have a whole bin of assorted blues . . .

I also have adult A.D.D. Of course I do. I walk into my sewing studio, armed with block patterns in hand and begin to pull out the fabrics that I want to use. Why is it that I have all this fabric but when it comes to putting a few together I hate all the fabric I have. And then while I am picking through, I get nostalgic about some silly 5 inch charm that I can't find the perfect mate for. I can spend hours doing this. Then I dig through the mountain of fabrics I have pulled out to find the patterns I came downstairs with originally. It should also be shared that after all this time I am exhausted, and forgotten just what I was intending to do to begin with. There is really no hope.

I find it difficult to stay on task. I work better with a task ahead of me. But I do get sidetracked. Sigh. I make a master list each month of which block goes to whom in the various swaps I am in. And the process starts all over again.

I am living proof that not all Blondes are pin heads. I raised three children into well fed neurotic, although not quite thumb sucking, adults. I worked three jobs for more years than I can remember to keep them well fed, a roof over their heads and gently used second hand clothes to wear. Except I always purchased new underwear for them. See, there I go again. Dang! See how my mind works? It wanders down a path, chasing each thought until it reaches a wall and says Whoa! You really didn't need to know about their new underwear. Is that why I am so affectionately known as Blondie?

There is really no hope. I have given up since I know my brain while not exactly mushy, gets overwhelmed by so much sensory overload. Well, folksies, it is time to once again go down to my sewing studio and start picking up the fabric pieces again. I have two patterns to contemplate. I think I remember that bin of blues, but, then I think this pattern requires a gutsy, vibrant translation. It's a good thing I have learned to master the minute timer.