Every once in a while, my mom tells me a story I haven’t heard a million times, and one that’s actually pretty interesting. (That’s not to say her other stories aren’t interesting; they are. Just the first and second time around, not over and over.) Today, she presented this story while we ate Chinese food.
Dammit. I thought I’d make it through one meal without getting something on my shirt and, well, oh well. Look. I told Marilyn yesterday…she’s...well, she was my sister-in-law when I was married to your dad. I guess my step-sister-in-law since they were step, but now she’s not anything. Anyway. Yesterday we were laughing about when I was pregnant. This was back in the 60s and I just spilled stuff all the time all over my chest. Then Marilyn would take my shirt and embroider a flower over it. I’d spill. She’d embroider. Over and over. Well, pretty soon, I had a shirt that was covered with flowers. Flowers from my hip and wrapping all up the front of my chest. Some lady said “Oh, I just love your shirt” and I said “Thanks. I made it myself”.
Now I know why embroidery was so popular in the sixties. It wasn’t the drugs or free love. It was because women figured out a way to make clothes last longer when they spilled stuff. It’s fricking brilliant. I now want to learn to embroider.