Today I vaccumed, tidied, made mini chocolate donuts, planted a plum tree, potted geraniums, prepared a nice dinner and turned some vintage fabric I bought recently, into an A-line skirt from a pattern I made myself from a sheet of newspaper. No, don’t refresh your browser – you have come to Laugh in the Sun, homeplace of the bad housewife. If it’s any consolation, when I sewed the first version of the skirt and tried it on, I could have fit another half a person in there with me.
At which point I called my sister and asked her if she would like the skirt – before you furrow your brow (or call me up and swear at me, Em) I figured that I could be bothered making the adjustments required for her to wear it, whereas I figured I would be over it and know exactly how I had cut corners and therefore never want to wear it again. Follow me? It’s a logic I understand anyway, so trust me, OK? She pointed out that she had seen the fabric, and while she thought it was nice – she doesn’t really do autumnal colors. This really doesn’t sound like my post at all, does it? It’s all Martha Stewart and stuff. Weird. My sister also suggested, that if I persevered, I could get the skirt to fit and end up with a pattern that was perfectly custom-made for me. And so I did. I know, shock horror, right?
I’m not a born sewer, nor terribly well taught and I tend to read recipe and pattern books by starting with a general understanding rather than reading the fine print. I have never made anything without unpicking at least one seam. This skirt was no different. BUT – after unpicking that one seam, and applying a bit of brainpower, I ended up with a skirt that is quite nice, a perfect length, different, vintage, with a black rickrack hem. I like it. And as I was holding it up admiring it, Stepford Husband returned with the boys from chopping firewood. He looked at me and the floor and the house and stuff, and I showed him the skirt. He had one of those looks – you know, ‘who are you strange Stepford person, and what have you done with my wife?’ He wasn’t worried, you understand, possibly mildly hopeful – but certainly confused. It was only when I modelled my hard-work skirt for him, wearing fluffy blue bed socks and with my legs as hairy as a goats, did he seem to recognise me. His wife. The bad housewife, in all her glory.