Bust my buttons

I’m running late because I did something old-fashioned this morning.

A good old-fashioned humjob, Hedy? Way to go. Jim's gotta be smiling.

Shaddap. No.

I didn’t blow something, I sewed something. A button on a blouse.

Yep. I. Sewed. A button. On a blouse.

Crazy, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m not particularly domestic. I get nervous making Jell-O.

Just thinking about my brief childhood foray into 4-H Club makes my stomach jump.

There were three projects for girls: Sew a blouse, knit a hat, and string a necklace.

“Why can’t I make a birdhouse with the boys?” I asked.

“Because you have a vagina, sweetheart,” the Himmler-esque 4-H leader replied.

I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.

Anyhow. I sweated over these projects for what seemed like the longest winter in history. With completely disastrous results.

One sleeve was longer than the other on the blouse. The hat had a hole in it. And I can’t really talk about the necklace it was so traumatic.

So you can imagine how shocked Mom and I were when, walking through the Craft House at the Armada Fair the following summer, we discovered that my lop-sided blouse had won a red second place ribbon.

I’m sure the judges had good intentions. But that silly ribbon did diddly-squat for my fragile self-esteem.

Instead, it transformed me into the cynical, domestically challenged freak before you today.

Head Heart Hands my ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In truth, the button is something the cleaners should’ve caught and repaired. I actually tossed it in the dry cleaning basket after discovering the missing button a couple weeks ago but forgot to mention it at the drop-off. Of course they should’ve caught it but apparently the Ancient Chinese Secret is “Sew your own fucking buttons, Missy.”

So this morning I gathered up the necessary materials and fixed it myself.

Thread. Needle. Jim’s ‘cheater’ reading glasses. Scissors. Button.

Here’s the surprise: Aside from stabbing myself in the finger several times, it was extremely comforting.

“I could do this all day,” I thought. “Or at least another 10 minutes.”

There was something about it that felt – I dunno – quaint. Cozy. Old-timey.

Plus, I now have this tight-as-a-button button on my shirt again. I even re-threaded two other buttons that were threatening to make a break for it.

Was this the only shirt in your closet, Hed? How about just giving it another go at the dry cleaners? Why waste a morning on something like this?

It’s completely irrational, I know.

But no more or less rational than a morning blowjob.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pussycat Dolls - Loosen Up My Buttons
I am reading: The Shack by William P. Young
And I am: Domestically challenged