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.
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