Tra la la.
Or whathaveyou, and I’m up at dawn using the few hours before my husband wakes to assemble The Garment That Shall Not Be Named.
This is more difficult than it sounds. My consultants (Joey the Hun and Mama Kitty) find it necessary to sit on either the fabric or the instructions. You know–instructions. Paper that makes a great crackling noise without really telling you whether to pin things right side together or the other way ‘round. Certainly not before being shredded.
The consultants are assisted by my mother (of blessed memory) who taught me to sew and won’t get out of my head. Hence the basting. And cats tearing off to swat the odd pin under the refrigerator. Mom never did approve of pins.
Nor does she approve of my fabric choice. The newer stuff is of low moral character. She thumbs her cremated nose at my plan to make a warm thing out of fleece and flannel. (Acrylic. Cotton. Mixed media. Read all about it in Leviticus.) With the spouse, emphasis is on warmth. With Mom, and now me (both of us in perpetual menopause), emphasis is on opening windows in the dead of winter.
The only thing in my favor is that the consultants approve of fleece. I bought enough of it to put great folded swaths at either end of the kitchen island where, if they heed my intent, they’ll observe the work in sartorial comfort. This hasn’t yet come to pass, but it’s Advent, and in that season we wait.
Tomorrow the real sewing begins. I get to find out if closing the French doors keeps the sound of the machine from bringing the giftee downstairs at a run. You see, he’s a professional sewing machine fixer and ever alert for the subtle shift in timing that signals stitching disasters yet to come.
Kinda like Superman wielding a bobbin.
Until then, friends…