Summer and I look nothing alike. She's my sister and I often wonder if she sucked the gene pool dry so that there was nothing left in there for me except the sludge that got caught in the filter. Anyway, so here she is, tall, blonde, pale like Nicole Kidman and with a nose that is non-denominational (unlike mine) and we're in Walmart (the land of plenty) looking at fabrics.
Because they're in the dollar bin, duh!
Anyway, so we're up to our elbows in cheap and sometimes tacky fabric, and I'm talking about how Mommy Dearest is/was teaching me to sew on my never-before-used sewing machine. See, it's kinda hard for Mom to trust me with the machine - she still sees me as a five-year-old with grubby jelly hands and potentially harmful reflexes that may be hell-bent on tearing up her Singer - her only real means of financial gratitude (she was also a teacher). So - every time I would reach for her scissors (the "bone-cutters" of my youth) she would sharply draw in her breath. Finally, I got so frustrated that I told her we'd finish it "later" (a point to be determined later when my patience, and my Xanex prescription, has increased).
Summer suddenly grabs a "Sew Easy" pattern off a rack and thrusts it towards me.
"Wehavetomakethisandnottellmomwecandoitallbyourselvesandnooneneedstoknowuntilit'sdone!" It was all in one breath. I stared at her, wide eyed - my synapses were firing rapidly, trying to make sense of the high speed comment that was just hurled at me at five times the speed of sound.
"Okay." I replied and jumped up and down for emphasis (not knowing that emphasis is sometimes not the thing that is emphasized when a chubby girl bounces in the middle of Walmart) and began the task of finding corresponding prints. I settled on a tame purple and green plaid with a tiny flower print accent for the pockets. Very tasteful. Summer, however, decides that only a bright pink fabric with accents of black and silver crossbones will do -oh - and a pink studded ribbon trim, too.
Two hours later we are back at my house, spread across the floor. The pattern is in Greek. Well, not really, but it might as well've been! "Sew easy" - my ass!
We finally figure it out by combining the brain power of two excited girls and one reluctant husband and began the task of cutting, pressing and sewing our soon to be world-reknowned aprons. Our excitement is cut short when Summer gets behind the needle of the sewing machine and makes something that looks eerily like the hair spider of nightmare's passed. Oh - we forgot to lower the foot. Our second attempt is better - my turn at the wheel.
My pocket is perfect and I'm beaming like a proud fabric-loving mother. Until I break the bobbin. Crap.
I have NO idea how to change the bobbin.
Precious hours are wasted as we study the picture on the top of the sewing machine that is supposed to be a helpful artist's rendering of a successful bobbin winding. We curse, we throw things and we hit the fragile machine while pulling and tugging and readjusting every knob, bell and whistle on it.
Finally, I look hard at the picture - and - pick up the bobbin from underneath the foot and place it on the spindle on top of the machine - just like the drawing illustrates.
Well - shit, that was easy.
We dissolve into shrieks of laughter before toiling onward and upward in our quest to conquer the world - one apron at a time.