I’ve become my mother.
No…I haven’t accidentally put spearment in my quiche in place of parsley (Worst. Quiche. Ever.)
And I haven’t accidentally washed clothes in maple syrup instead of laundry detergent.
(An aside…my mother is brilliant – seriously. She has a BA in both psychology and philosophy, a Master’s in psych and a Ph.D. in psych, and she’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet, but sometimes she’s so absentminded she’s dangerous!)
Anyway, I’ve been dragging fabric out of the sewing closet so I can make clothes for RT (yes, Sandra, I’ll post pics when I’m done) and I came to the horrible conclusion that in some very concrete ways, I’ve become my mother.
I have twelve 40 gallon plastic totes filled with fabic. Filled. To the top. The lids barely latch. Most of the stuff I bought for a particular reason or project. There are several quilts that need to be made. There’s a lot of fabric in there meant for skirts and tops, but there’s also a lot that I’ve looked at and said, WTF???
I remember when I was learning to sew, I rarely ever had to go to the fabric store, I’d just go into the sewing room and find fabric that worked for whatever project I was starting. It seems this has carried into my adult life. I did some quick math, and I estimated how much fabric I have. Over a thousand yards…
I have become my mother. I am a fabric whore.