As a little girl, and even as a woman, the image of my mother at her sewing machine is tattooed to my memory. The little TV is on for white noise, the clatter of sewing scissors being picked up and then set down again, the hum of the machine itself like a rapid throaty clap - and her face - focussed on the task at hand, corners of her mouth slightly turned down.
On this particular rainy Sunday, I found myself spread out in the living room, the TV on, and the sewing machine fired up (dragged out from the back room because there's no TV in there). When Big Red came home from lunch with his mother, he grabbed his laptop off the dining room table and as he left the room asked: Is everything okay? Are you mad or are you concentrating. It was the face. Her face in mine. No, I'm not mad. I'm just thinking about what I need to do next and making sure I pin these two pieces together.
The task at hand: a slipcover for a boring desk. Said desk is part of the office makeover. Since Big Red has the garage, I've decided to commandeer the office as mine own...or in the words of Miz Woolf, I'm making A Room of One's Own. I chose three pleasantly delightful fabrics and few yards of white ruffle:
I even opened up the ancient owners manual to the sewing machine and looked up a zig-zag seam for the hems: