I can be a little obsessive compulsive. I’m okay with that.
Last week I started thinking about sewing and how nice it would be to own a sewing machine. I could think about nothing else. All the cute little things I could make circled through my mind, taunting me. Pouches, purses, pillows, patches, and even things that don’t begin with P, paraded before me like the anthropomorphic hot dog and candy at the movies that would sing about going to the lobby and getting a treat (hopefully one that doesn’t have arms and legs and sing – talking food is the weirdest). Then there is Halloween and Christmas and all the wonderful things I could sew for costumes or presents.
It was all too much. So, I did the only logical thing.
I call her Daisy. Isn’t she pretty?
I purchased her along with thread, bobbins, fabric and a heavy-duty seam ripper cause I know I’ll need that. I even got a tomato and some pins cause that’s what you’re supposed to do.
I have no idea.
As I set up the machine, it all slowly started coming back to me. It’s been years since I’ve sewn anything, but I guess it’s like falling off a bike.
Bobbins - loaded and ready for action.
I put in the bobbin, threaded the needle and ran through a test piece of fabric.
Thar she sews!
Everything seemed to be working as it should, so I got a little ambitious. I found some scrap pieces of fabric and made one of those little coin purses that I saw on-line.
Not too shabby, eh? And I only used the seam ripper once! Yea, me! Don’t know if you can tell, but that fabric looks like planks of wood. I call this little purse “Barn Fire” cause of the fabric I used for the lining.
Flame on!
I showed it to my husband and he replied, in typical fashion, “You can put your weed* in it.” Thanks, hon. That’s helpful.
So, I am now a sewer. I sew. Just thought you’d like to know. (I’m also a poet, in case you were wondering.)
*No mom. Neither me nor my husband smoke weed. I swear.
