Good grief

I opened a can of worms.  Better than a can of whoop-ass I guess. 

 

Thank you so much for all your help!  Jeannine you found what I couldn't and I thank you.  Kathy, Misi, Lisa, Sherry, Kathiquilts, a big thank you to all of you, too.  I wanted to reply with my gratitude but I can't!  You're all no-reply so I am thanking you here. 

 

My can of worms opened when I visited some of the sites recommended.  No no no.  I am not changing over to farmhouse style.  Industrial farmhouse. The uncluttered unique look.  The look I couldn't look away from.  The look I am searching for online.  NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!  I'm not finished with all these projects and I'm dreaming of a different style.  Can't do it.  Yet I see a change a comin'.  And my mixed up brain cannot handle it. 

 

Some farmhouse and industrial can certainly be mixed with primitive, but I don't know about sparse colonial.  Look at these birds from Antique Farmhouse.  This is not me.  But I love them.  And these tin hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there's Gershwin and Gertie and isabella sparrow that Jeannine pointed my brain to.  I know there are many many more I will discover if I search on this wicked device.  I need to step back.  Far back.  Take a deep breath, some chocolate, a towel for the sticky body, and an iced coffee.  Unplug.  Try to forget.  Keep in mind that the DEP is demanding sewage lines that will cost you $200 per month for the rest of your life plus $5000 in tap-in fees, new windows and siding are needed, your sister needs a car.  I shouldn't even buy the bee skep.  But I just spent another $100 on wool I'm not even using so why not this?  Once the can is opened, the lid can't be put back on. 

 

I need a pill but I can't swallow them.  I've not forgotten that Glenna (Eye of the Needle) posted "indecision=paralysis" and that is so true. Thinking about incorporating this style will set me back years.  I don't know if I am a true procrastinator or if my lack of decisions causes my immobility.  Projects, as you know, have been hanging around too long.  So has menopause.  At least the hot flashes have changed somewhat.  Now, instead of a rapid spontaneous combustion, it's a slow burn that sneaks up on me until I'm on fire and soaked.  Is it hot in here?  Is it getting warmer outside?  No.  It's your body on a #2 burner slowly rising to the #10 boil.

 

I'm leaving now.  My sister dropped off her tops for me to remove the stains.  I told her a hundred times, a drop of Lestoil for any grease, butter, oil.  Bar keeper's friend for rust spots from the washer. Biz for anything else.  I even gave her the products.  When people ask me if I have any children, I tell them yes I do, she's 77.

 

Later pals.

 

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