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Tailor Made

I had a personal tailor growing up.  Sounds a bit posh, doesn't it?  But I really did.  My father was a tailor (always will be a tailor), and of course the best tailor around.  All my life, he took care of my alterations with expert care. He knew how I was built. One arm just a tiny bit longer than the other, one hip a little off, and an ever fluctuating waistline. He altered my clothes perfectly and instinctively. Over the past few years though, his eyesight has dimmed and he can't tailor the way he could when his vision was sharp.  I remember shopping with confidence knowing he could fix anything that didn't fit me quite right. So, I wouldn't hesitate to buy things that needed altering. I knew he would be ready and willing to make the necessary changes to my clothes, transforming them to fit my crooked body.    This is my sewing machine.  It belonged to my dad. Now a days, I know I can't run to my dad to make alterations for me.  I miss being able to go to hi

Making the most of my messes

The painting was really sad. It was supposed to depict a cluster of grapes, but it looked like a diseased raspberry instead. I’m talking about an experience at one of those painting parties, where you follow the instructions of a talented teacher and your great hope is that yours will look as good as hers. Oh, and did I mention they served wine at this party?  I think it was supposed to help?  Hmmm, not so much. I am not being hard on myself. I am being a realistic critic, and my completed painting really was a mess.  I took it home and tucked it in a corner where I would not see it.  Face down, out of sight, out of mind.   Not too long ago, when I was cleaning my space, I came across it and I cringed.  Instead of putting it away again, I did the next best thing.  I painted right over it.  Yep, covered up the evidence, covered up the mess. I felt relief. Not a single grape existed anywhere on that canvas.  With a few quick brush strokes I had a “new” canvas that I could use for so