As a general rule, I’m not known for doing anything halfway. So when I start a new hobby, I get a little gung ho. Like the time I decided it would be fun to learn how to paint. Swooning over the veritable ocean of colors (who knew there were so many shades of blue), I ended up with enough tubes of acrylic to paint over the Sistine Chapel. Twice. Or the time I thought it would be intriguing to make stained glass. You would have thought I was a glass purchaser for Louis Tiffany himself. But when I took up quilting, my mania soared to new heights. It became a material obsession.
It started innocently enough. I signed up for a class to learn the basics of handcrafting a quilt. I bought the exact amount of fabric specified by the pattern. After work, I’d stitch my pieces together by hand. I felt like Ma Ingalls at my little house on the Indiana prairie. Except, I’m sure Ma’s quilts were a completed with a little more precision. My stitches were uneven, my squares lopsided and the pieces didn’t quite match up. But I finished it anyway.
If I’d have just wadded it up and banished it to the land of unfinished craft projects that was so common after my initial enthusiasm waned, none of this would have happened. But as I studied my ugly quilt, I saw potential. I saw hope. I saw what this truly represented – the opportunity to buy more fabric.
So I set out on my quest of fabric acquisition. And I mastered it.
It started as a quarter yard here, a cute fat quarter there. These purchases were not made for a specific project but just because the fabric was pretty. I’d figure out the details later. But the fabric began to pile higher. And higher.
I loved looking at my growing stash. I imagined all the glorious projects I would make for family and friends. Once I had enough fabric, that is.
But I became mortified when The Husband noticed the tangible evidence of my obsession – the fabric falling off my shelf. As he surveyed the rainbow waterfall of cloth, he laughed. “You must have a hundred dollars worth of material here,” he said looking at the colorful pile heaped next to the sewing machine.
Honey, if you only knew.
I had to become more creative in the transport and storage of my newly procured textiles. Now purchases remained hidden in the car until they were later transferred to a large, opaque Rubbermaid container where I concealed my stash. Then, like the piles that once lined my shelf, the number of storage containers took on epic proportions. And that’s exactly when I found out we were moving. Not across town, but across the country via a 26-foot U-Haul. My cover was about to be blown and I was going to be forced to part with my much-loved collection.
As I looked at my containers, I realized all was not lost. I wouldn’t have to part with a thing. All it took was a little fabrication.
I hatched my nefarious plan when I decided that fabric could look like the perfect packing matter. On the top of every fabric filled crate, I placed two plates before snapping on the lid. I labeled all the containers “kitchen,” threw out the rest of the dishes and transported my beloved fabric to its’ new home.
Ten years later, I haven’t made a thing. Because I’m still waiting until I have enough fabric.
The original ugly quilt, wonky edges and all.