Saying that I’m not crafty is kind of like saying that Joan Rivers may have had a little work done on her face. While I was always disappointed and even shocked by the works of art that I produced it wasn’t until high school that I came to the realization that somehow the connection from the artistic creative side of my brain to my hands had been severed. I think that my sisters did it to me at some point in my childhood, I just don’t have the evidence. Really, once you know someone who’s connection from their brain to their mouth has been severed my own impairment does not seem so bad.
I’ve mentioned that I knit, but let me clarify. I knit only scarves and afghans, nothing that takes any kind of shaping and if you feel a need to check my tension, well, nuts to you.
My middle sister is very talented artistically. I am mostly just proud of her but there have been times that this put me in an awkward position. Take Chanukah gifts for example. For some reason the crazy thought existed that if she would appreciate a craft kit so would I. A craft kit, wow, an hour of fun for her hours of torture for me. And when it’s all over the joy of ownership of some kind of unrecognizable something.
Take the faux suede purses for example. stitch ’em up (by hand) and then just glue on the heart appliques. Easy for her. Glue for me would not end well. Who knew what I could get stuck to and there would also be the matter of all the glue on the exterior of my beautiful new purse which would never see the outside of my closet. My creative solution was to use gum. That way I could reposition the crooked hearts to a slightly less crooked position and I like the scent of mint.
I failed grade 8 home economics. Not the cooking part, just the sewing part. We were to make a book bag, complete with gussets – is that the right word? I went fabric shopping with my mom. She commented on the beautiful fabrics and asked which one appealed to me. I responded with “Just buy whichever one is on sale and the cheapest. I’ll never be able to use the thing.” We bought brown. I failed and it took up residence at the back of my closet with the purse.
Now picture me married with these words falling from my husband’s lips, “Honey, would you mind sewing on this button for me?” I was a newlywed, was I allowed to snort at him and say, “Ah, not in this lifetime.”? It didn’t feel like a newlyweddish response. So I took the button and the shirt, found a needle (he came to the marriage with a needle, I certainly didn’t) and some dental floss and off I went. Now don’t underestimate the dental floss. It’s strong as can be, that button will never come off and once again that lovely minty smell. I progressed to thread as not every shirt is white and I knew that if the button, shirt and thread didn’t match, well, people could sully my good name.
Fast forward 17 years. The Artiste wants a new duvet cover in brown. Yes, brown again. I can’t find one anywhere in our city but I can find brown sheets. All I need is to put two and two together so to speak and I’ll have my duvet cover. How hard can this be? I just need a sewing machine, preferably a slow one. Now it may seem frivolous to you to buy a sewing machine for one duvet cover but I ask you, what’s your point?
I am happy to report that I did it! It even looked normal. Since then I have even used my machine to cuff pyjamas. You weren’t expecting more were you? And when my younger children asked me if I could make them Halloween costumes I proudly answered, “I sure can, if you want to be a duvet, or a pillow I think I could also do a pillow!”