Because I had forgotten a teensy, weensy little problem I have with sewing clothes, especially formal, dressy clothes. Well, actually more than one problem.....
I HATE IT. I hate the fabric, I hate the slipperiness of it, I hate having to finish all the edges. I hate having to wear gloves, practically cause it's so easy to snag and it's winter for heaven's sake and my hands feel like sand paper. And I especially hate the dreaded, horrible awful instrument of torture known as.....
THE SEAM RIPPER. The seam ripper who wants to be my new best friend. I think it conspired with the sewing machine to get out of the drawer and on the table. 'Cause the fault can't be with me. Can it? (Maybe I need a new sewing machine, which by the way is probably the best Christmas present Les every gave me, long, long ago.)
You see, the seam ripper means you have made a mistake and it needs to be removed. The mistake could be in the sewing--fairly easy to fix; or the cutting, not so easy but perhaps do-able. Or the most dreaded thing of all that is next to impossible to fix....
...If the mistake is in the person wielding this instrument of torture. The person who once again forgot that she was not living in a fantasy world where all the seams were sewn straight, true, correct, the first time. The fantasy world where the seamstress (me) is engulfed in a cloud of fluffy, delicate fabrics that she randomly snatches up and feeds into the sewing maching to create a joy to behold, a wonder of a dance dress. A lovely, delightful, delicate, airy creation..
And she (I) forgot that delicate fabric is easy to tear if you're not careful with your new best friend, the seam ripper. And use of said seam ripper by the person who is attempting to be a lady (living as she is in a fantasy world) can result in some not-so-ladylike language. (hopefully the seamstress has closed the sewing room door before attempting the impossible.)
The seamstress person--that would be me--had forgotten one little fact about herself. (well, probably not forgotten, probably she (me) is just avoiding unpleasantness, as usual.) She is not patient, and she is not kind and she is certainly not able to insert her name in I Corinthians 13 in place of the word, love.... with a seam ripper in her hand.
Hey, Mom. Remember all those 4-H outfits I sewed? Remember them? Remember how great they looked when they were finished? How I got awards for my sewing and attention to detail? Remember that???
Remember all the times the fabric and other paraphenelia was thrown down in frustration, rage, anger and impatience?
And Mom, do you remember what you did when I threw the tantrum and the fabric and sometimes the scissors???? You did it for me! You did the hard part, the yucky part, the ripping-out part! Remember that part?
MOM, where are you????????? We need this dress by Saturday!