All bitch, no stitch

So, I am a subscriber to BUST, a fine read every other month (even if it is a little too in love with itself and its relentlessly conformist nonconformity). They always have page upon page of "DIY" and crafty shit for you to do, with instructions and whatnot, and always feature something you can sew (plus ads for sewing machines, patterns, and assorted paraphernalia). It always makes me wish, vaguely, that I could actually sew, because that would be kewl. 

The thing is, I've discovered that for me, sewing is juuuust that little step too far over the line into the category Mechanical; Creative and/or Crafty, I can do, but Mechanical eludes me. You know what I mean? There is a machine involved, which you have to know how to work; there are specialized tools, which you can't just select at random; there are patterns that you actually have to follow, like for real; there is measurement, which you can't just freehand, as is my wont; and even the fabric has to be right for the job. 

Now, my grandmother was a union seamstress for most of her adult life. She sewed like the wind. I'd see some pretty fabric in a store when I went shopping with her, and by that evening, I'd have a new dress (with a matching one for my GD ugly-ass waste-of-money peer-pressure-token Cabbage Patch doll, if it's my fourth grade year we're talking about here). She was so patient and so good at it, and she tried so hard to teach me (at my urgent request), but I never got beyond running a so-called straight seam that went nowhere and was attached to no garment. 

And in 8th grade,  I took the sewing semester of Home Ec, because the cooking semester wouldn't fit my schedule, and all I remember from that (besides getting yelled at a lot by the bitchface teacher) was this unbelievable flaming tragedy of a pair of Jams-type shorts I made as my final project. People ... they were made of, like, a canvas sailcloth material about a quarter inch thick, they were about eight sizes too big, and the inside of the seams looked like a thread factory threw up all over them -- snarls, backtracking, psychotic meanderings, strange wads of fabric and thread that I'd actually had to cut my way out of. I came closer to failing that class than I ever have before or since in my life (thank Shatner for extra credit!). These things were all my fault, and were, sadly, the result of my serious, earnest best effort at the task. 

More recently, my Starbuck costume for last Halloween involved hemming shorter the sleeves of a dark tee; I did it by hand, in about three hours, with the aid of some of that tape shit that you iron on, while Mr. Gleemonex merrily zipped together his older-bro-in-The Goonies outfit on his sister's sewing machine in about 40 seconds, damn him. 

I guess this type of ineptitude is why Shatner invented the glue gun, no?