Domestic Scary

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.

4 thoughts on “Domestic Scary

  1. I was wondering why there wasn’t a photo of your new skirt, until the third-last line. So, like, I’ll just take your word that it’s lovely, okay?

  2. Gillian, if I could get them out the door, I’d send them your way. They fly off the plate. FLY.

    Yeah, taking photos of the doughnuts and the skirt would absolutely have been the cherry on the cake. I NEVER seem to have all the ingrediants at once!

    Unlike my husband, James! 😀

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