Seventh grade's Home Ec (er, Personal and Family Life Sciences, now called Family and Consumer Sciences) requirement did not go very far with me. The teacher had to deal with boys trying to juggle eggs in class, and they hadn't yet learned to juggle. Suffice to say, she hated our class and we weren't terribly fond of her either. The week she introduced sewing, I had a particularly nasty strain of something-or-other, so my mom taught me sewing on her machine, through my flu-induced-haze. Apparently, my canvas tote bag and stuffed chocolate chip cookie pillow were done incorrectly.
Skip ahead a few years. And a few more.
To call me a fashion plate would be laughable and would reflect poorly on the state of your optic nerves. I hate shopping. Mostly because I don't get fashion or couture, and it's probably a jealousy thing on my part (shhh! don't tell anyone!) By the way, pink is one of the worst inventions known to mankind. I know what fits me, but I never know what actually looks good or modern or non-old-fogie-esque. I'd like to be fashionable, but I'm not.
One day, I realized that the curtains I'd just hand-sewed to keep prying eyes out of my first-floor apartment would have been sooo much easier to do if I had a sewing machine. So, I got one.
And then I had nothing to make with it.
Thus began the hacks... dun dun duuuuuuun!
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