The title of this post sounds like it could also be the title of a chapter of my dissertation.
Anyway, nobody will be surprised to hear that I used to sew a lot. I can’t exactly remember why, but for a while I was producing small and rather elaborate stuffed pigs out of pink gingham. The snouts were particularly tricky.
I took “fashion design” in high school and sewed all manner of scrunchie and tote bag. There was really very little “fashion” or “design” involved in the whole thing, but I liked it. I also took “gourmet foods,” which involved some actual cooking and many quizzes where we had to identify spatulas and whisks. There was rampant cheating. Really.
To review, my high school was very strange, albeit in a way that often suited my rather retro inclinations: etiquette dinners, speech lessons, badminton, roller skating, ice cream socials and required dances (with dance cards and assigned escorts*, in middle school). It really wouldn’t have seemed odd had we all worn cardigans, circle skirts, and saddle shoes; the dress code was close enough, anyway. I never personally received any demerits for failing to wear socks between October and May, but I know many ladies who did.
I haven’t sewn much of anything since then. The curtains in my living room remain pitifully un-hemmed.
Over the weekend, I stumbled across a stack of tablecloths on clearance at Target. Tablecloths with birds on them. How irresistible:
I don’t have a dining table, so my need for tablecloths is nonexistent. I discovered, however, that— with a quick hem— these tablecloths were just the right size to turn into curtains for the tiny second bedroom:
I like them. Quick, manageable projects like this are the perfect antidote to grad school woes. I was even inspired to hem (somewhat crookedly) one pair of the living room curtains. Someday, maybe I’ll finish the other two. Until then, back to writing about gowns and quilts (rather than sewing them).
*I may have liked poodle skirts, but, even at age 12, the escort thing never went over well with me. I was raised, after all, by a mother who marched for the ERA and reminded me that even a 1950’s ranch home can have a madwoman in the attic. I can get my own damn punch.