Craft-astrophe! When wine and sewing mix...

The title alone should say it all, but it was my moment to show my inner moronic behavior.  

Enter a casual Saturday night, my husband is happily playing his latest video game. I sneak upstairs into my craft room, glass of wine  in hand.  As I approached my room alarms should have been going off, the EMTs should have knocked on the door requesting that I step away from my craft room for my own safety. None of those things happened, the next few hours was an exercise in insanity. 

I had decided that the cocktail ottoman in my family room had to go, the dogs have done what they do and yet again we just cannot have nice things!  I decided to try my hand at making the Amy Butler floor cushions I had seen in my Midwest Modern book.  Step 1 cut the foam, this required the use of an electic knife luckly I escaped unscathed because I requested my husbands help earlier in the day, my luck did not hold out.  

Step 2, cut the fabric, that was lucky I kept all my fingers.  However I did nip myself with the sissors.  Next pin the pieces together.  Multiple stab wounds later I should have stopped.  Yet again, I knew what I was doing.  

Step 3 begin to sew.  I set up everything nicely, began piecing the fabric parts together.  I should have known that when I had to take out my first two stiches to stop then, but no, I knew what I was doing.  I happily finished my sewing and should have stopped when I stiched the sleeve of my sweatshirt into the fabric I was working, another removed stitch.  But did I stop there, NO!

I finally finished all of my stiches and was very proud of myself.  Looked just georgous.  But at that point, I was looking at it through an alcohol induced haze.

The following morning my alcohol goggles were removed and I saw my work.  Shame overtook me, I promptly removed the fabric cover, gave up on the fabric because the rotary cutting was so crooked I could never use it again and the stiches resembled a random s-curve.  

Next order of buisness remake the floor cushion without wine.    

Fabric Addiction - Husbands Just Don't Understand

Let me just go on record to say that women have tried to understand men since the beginning of time. I choose to believe that of late we have accepted that men are not like women and therefore when we reach a point where we start to respond to something they do or say that the "huh" response is no longer automatic. We accept this and move one, we overlook their tendency to geek out on something that we have no interest in that we should expect the same courtesy. Well ladies, I don't know about the rest of you, but I have learned that we are not always given the same courtesy. Of course, in the case of a crafter it is harder because only another crafter can understand. A quilter walks into a fabric store and we experience a full emotional response, angels sing, spotlights highlight the new line of fabric from our favorite designer, and we know at that moment that even world peace is possible. Our response turns into one where we are watching whatever chick flick with the mute on because all we are looking for is eye candy, we are moved. We have already primed ourselves to expect hours of entertainment even if we don't buy anything, which is never the case we always have to have something. Let me set the scene, I walk into one of my local quilters fabric stores, I pause to breathe in the smell of new fabric. I see the new Moda fabric line and my drug of choice hits me in full force, who needs a good glass of wine, more fabric going into your stash is an incredible high. The drugging euphoric feeling is already starting and I start to breathe rapidly. I quickly turn from a mature 37 year old woman into a five-year old in the cereal isle of the grocery store, I have to have it all!! The excitement is running through my veins and the roller coaster adrenaline high has kicked into full effect, I have to see and touch all of it. I rate my experience in a good fabric store to that of getting the attention of the high school quarterback. The ability to form words properly becomes impossible, everything comes out moron because you cannot focus, all you are able to do is giggle and say: "oooo-kay." Now a fabric store visit can go either one of two ways. The first, your husband is not with you, which makes you smile and you slowly turn into the best CIA spy to ever be created. 007 eat your heart out. First order of business is calculating how you are going to get all the hundreds of dollars of fabric into the house without your husband seeing. I think that women turn into Ethan Hunt and the Mission Impossible theme starts playing in the background. "Your mission should you choose to accept it is to buy $300 worth of fabric and safely secure it within your stash without your husband becoming suspicious." The mission is one we all choose to accept, we know that for a quilter new fabric ranks right up there with the high that comes with the purchase of a new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. You choose to just go ahead, buy the fabric, and deal with the consequences later. Unfortunately, your addiction has kicked in and at this point the intervention that is needed would just ruin the high. The moment you open the door and the nice ladies greet you it starts. You try desperately to control the impact as you casually browse the fat quarters and you select a few, desperately controlling the rush. Your only defense is the mental mantra "I can only spend $50, I can only spend $50, I need to save up for 'blah' for the house.." Then it happens, you see it, the new designer and any self-control cracks, you stroll over and touch the fabric and you actually hear a choir sing. Then, you know at that moment you just did the wrong thing and you hear your limited self-control shatter, your eyes bug out, your heart rate increases, and within minutes you move from buying one or two fat quarters to calculating the number of yards. In order to gain a small amount of control over yourself you look around, wondering if you are the only one ready to overdose, but no, all the ladies in the store have the same look and you relax. The fear never strikes again and eventually you think, maybe I could use this fabric for another project, I should get more. Hours later you emerge from the shop, your high not affected when your told how many hundreds of dollars is your total, you happily hand over your credit card. The smile increases as your purchases are safely secured in the car, and the effects of the fabric drug have just kicked up a notch as your need to get home and begin working them increases. Then, it happens, it hits you in the car on the way home. "Oh no, what will my husband say." The crash happens and your mind starts to race while you think of an escape plan. You actually consider, he is out at Home Depot, I could bury the new fabric in the backyard or in the garden, wait until he goes to work on Monday and then bring it in, wash and iron, he will never know. This is the point where you turn into the 16 year old sneaking into the house after coming home after curfew, the part where you try to calculate how many miles before you reach the house where you have to shut off the engine to the car and coast the rest of the way home, you consider drugging the dog to avoid any noise, but since your mother is fabric stash-er from way back you get caught. Well, your no longer the 16 year old and the force is strong with this one. As your mind races for the prefect stealth plan you have to always consider, I have to be careful might damage the fabric. Then, the first stupid idea hits, trash day is not until Wednesday, I could hide it in a black trash bag in the trash can and then wait for him to leave. You mentally scoff at yourself and become ashamed when your fear causes you to consider such a stupid choice that might make the fabric smell. I know, hide it in the laundry room he never goes in there, you even resort to considering the freezer as a viable option. In order to focus you pull over onto the side of the road, you carefully plan the best method of attack, you even go so far as to come up with a plan-B so there is no chance of failure. By the time you pull into the driveway your escape plan is firmly in place and you have your back-up plan ready as an added safety precaution. All this Michael Westin mania happens so you can avoid the stupid question of "did you really need more fabric?" This question automatically requires the 16 year old 'you are the dumbest thing on this plant' mental response, the rolling of the eyes and the classic grunt. You hold your tongue while mentally your yelling, YES, and then your mental Rolodex starts flipping Flip, flip, flip, DING, what about this? Huh? Did you need another tool? What about needing that new motorcycle or the bigger TV, what about that $50 video game? All responses of course are mental because to allow him to affect your high is not an option. Your best response is to just use the mental mute button and put him on ignore. The second type of trip to the fabric store involves the stupidity of taking the husband with you. Let me just say save yourself some annoyance and just shove a pencil into your artery, let it bleed out, it will hurt less. It starts the moment you open the door, the dramatic sighs begin within the first two minutes, at minute five is the first time you hear "are you done yet?" Your normally loving and supportive husband turns into a two-year old and badgers you worse than a small child on a car ride. We all know the ride of which I speak, the one where the question "are we there yet?" pops out every two minutes. Each sigh and comment starts to grate on your nerves. At one point you actually make yourself believe that maybe if I can get him to help me look at the fabric that he might become excited like me. News flash, NOT GOING TO HAPPEN! The most you can expect at this point is the stare that resembles a dog listening to a high-pitched sound with the head cocked to one side and the look that screams "are you serious?" With this type of visit your lucky if you can make it successfully through the greens before you give up and leave completely unsatisfied. This shopping experience is a let down, your husband has ingrained himself as your permanent buzz kill and while your wallet may appreciate it, your normal fabric shopping high is obliterated. On the drive back to the house your Ethan Hunt tendencies kick in and you start to plan how you are going to get to go to the fabric store without him the next time. Between these two types of visits, I rate the husband going with you the same experience for you as he has when you go to Home Depot and you offer him a napkin to deal with the drool over the newest type of power saw. He talks nonstop about this saws cutting options and you mentally wonder if he would notice if you suddenly shoved a pencil into your eye to distract you from the pain. Advice, follow the Mission Impossible method because at the end of the day your husband will never understand.