Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Sleeping Dragon

I woke up this morning, as I do on so many mornings, hung over and wobbly. Sorting through my sodden memories for things I said or did last night that I might have to apologize for today. Trying to remember if I drunk-texted, or drunk-emailed, or drunk-Facebooked, or drunk-tweeted.

Dorothy Parker never had to keep track of so many outlets for inappropriate behavior. Probably she couldn't have managed it. I feel briefly superior to Dorothy Parker, which simply means there's still enough alcohol in my system to fuel a delusion or two.

Too fucking busy. Or vice versa.

As hangovers go, this one isn't bad. I take only one-half of one extra snooze alarm to get out of bed. I shower. Basic hygiene really shouldn't be a benchmark of whether I'm functional, but there's no point in being disingenuous. I make Precocious Daughter a sandwich for lunch.

This is key. On my best days, I find the act of sandwich-making to be tedious. It's so much easier to chunk an Uncrustables into her lunchbox. Sandwiches, says the virtuous inner voice known as Good Mom Me, are superior in taste, in nutrition, and as evidence of how much I love my child. I try to make the effort at least three days a week.

Good Mom Me always feels better to have sent PDaughter off to school with a tasty sandwich. Badly Hungover Me says, How does bread work? Why is the mayonnaise so heavy? Fuck this shit. But this morning Good Mom Me stepped up, which means I'm nowhere near scraping bottom today. Yay.

This is life, circa now. I'm a middle-aged mom who drinks too much and enjoys it too little, who is in the middle of a weird pre-divorce scenario, who doesn't understand what happened to her 25-inch waist. I mean, I understand what happened it to it; it took on an extra six inches of memory-foam-like fat. But since I live in a hot Southern state and not the Arctic Circle, I don't understand why my body felt the need to insulate itself like a walrus.

Thanks, I'm here all week. Try the fish.

But I digress.

My life consists of rituals and obligations. The degree of hangover varies from day to day, but little else. As the saying goes, if you're not the lead dog, the view never changes.

This morning, faithful Drunkard and friend-I-haven't-met Smee changed the fucking game.

I hate this fucking game.

Smee is a crafty lady. By which I mean she knits and sews, not that she's devious and sly, although maybe that, too.  She also posts some pretty kick-ass things about her crafty pursuits on Facebook. Today she posted a photo of a reproduction vintage pattern and the fabric she's going to use to make a dress from it. (To go swing dancing, of all things. How ridiculoulsy fabulous and unlike my own life is that?)

Here's the thing. It was a pattern that I myself own, for a dress that I myself have made.

This is what we call fashion squee.

I have no idea why the sight of that pattern left me with a literally overwhelming desire to start sewing again immediately. But holy blerg, it did.

Heart racing...Is this how
meth addicts feel?

I own a massive stash of fabric and patterns. They are all packed away. I love to sew, but my sewing machine is dormant. The room that was my sewing room became my bedroom when my marriage faltered. The time I spent on my hobby was diverted to other pastimes. And the part of me that was the Sewing Lady got lost among other pieces of my identity that worked their way to the forefront.

Now I don't sew. I drink.

I used to spend hours pinning, cutting, basting, ripping stitches out and starting all over with muffled curses, because I never said I was very good at sewing, just that I loved to sew. I had forgotten about that.

Until I saw that damn photo on my Facebook page, and it all came flooding back.

The thing is, how can I start sewing again?

I need to sell my house. I don't want to, but apparently that's what has to happen when you get divorced. How can I possibly clutter it up with the happy mess that sewing creates?

Please. This is to sewing as "Finding Sasquatch" is
to nature documentaries.

I'm spending all of my non-work, non-PDaughter-related sober time fixing up my kitchen and other assorted rooms. Where would I find the time to start, let alone finish, a new sewing project?

I don't know if my adjustable dress form even accommodates the size I've attained since the last time I made my own clothes.

If I sewed in the evenings and on weekends, I would have almost no time to sit around drunk and feeling sorry for myself.

And that would mean...


Goddammit, Smee.

What have you done?

I posted this on Facebook today.
The artist is Michelle Moroz-Chymy, and you should
check out her other work.


  1. At first I was feeling bad, thinking the exact thing you wrote- what the hell did I just do? If sewing takes away time from PD, I still feel bad.

    If sewing again is taking away from you thinking that somehow getting divorced means you're somehow damaged or wallowing in self pity?

    Dust off that machine, Chuck. We got some stitchin' and bitchin' to do :)

    (And my life is VERY unglamorous. I'vw just decided that this year is my year, and I'm doing what I damn well please lol)

    1. Mark your calendar. You may have saved a life today. <3

  2. I wish I could offer something more substantive, but when making sandwiches consider this: people had been putting stuff between slices of bread for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years, but we call it a "sandwich" because some lazy aristocrat with a gambling addiction couldn't tear himself away from the card table long enough to eat.

    If he could do that and be credited with "inventing" the sandwich surely you can find time to sew.

    And if things ever become overwhelming just remember Dorothy Parker's poem "Resumé".

