The Mothers in My Books Are Expert Seamstresses
Me? Not so much.
I’ve just finished making my second-ever set of curtains. I thought they’d be easier than the first set because the first ones were lined and these weren’t. And, I mean, curtains. Four straight seams. Not rocket science.
Also: the fabric I picked is checked. Checked! As in: the pattern is basically a grid of straight lines in pretty colors. Right? That’s what checks are: a grid. So for all my cutting and ironing and sewing, I had built-in straight lines to follow. Foolproof, right?
Not proof against this fool, apparently. Even Scott had to admit my level of incompetence is pretty impressive, when he saw the evidence hanging right there, unevenly, in the window. He witnessed how carefully I measured and re-measured before each cut, each round of pressing, each seam. He watched in amusement at my overzealous triple- and quadruple-checking. He saw me ever so carefully compare the finished first panel to the almost-finished second one before sewing the final seam, a bottom hem: how hard I worked to make sure they would be the same length when hung.
They aren’t. Scott actually burst out laughing when he saw the final product, because it really is comical that a reasonably intelligent person like his wife could spend two entire Saturdays on a project, applying an almost insane degree of attention to detail, and wind up with one curtain a good three-quarters of an inch shorter than the other.
Oh, and there’s a nice little splotch of blood on one of the panels, too, from where I ran a pin into my thumb. The blood got on the back side of the curtain so we figured it wouldn’t show, but it turns out that when the sun shines through, there’s a gruesome little silhouette. I should really be washing that out right now instead of writing about it.
Although, come to think of it, maybe I should stick to writing about women who can sew instead of trying to be one myself. 🙂