Three Yards Please.

When I was a wee one, every weekend like clock-work Prissy would drag Bubby and me to shop for fabric.

...for hours. ...and hours. ...and hours.

She was always in search of of the perfect bolt of double-knit cloth in which to fashion me a new pair of perma-crease elastic waist pants.

They were always in orange or peach, or better yet avocado green.

I looked like a kitchen appliance from the '70's.

Of course we'd have to stay by her side the entire time. We couldn't get out eyeshot lest her wrath come down upon us. So I have intense feelings about the fabric department at Wal-Mart.

I think because of this weekly torture, I never took up sewing.

Prissy was a remarkable seamstress. I say 'was' because her disease doesn't allow for it any more and I know she misses her sewing machine above any other treasure she owns.

It's in storage...alongside her beloved teapots.

...and it's all collecting dust.

I should be horsewhipped.

But last night at work, as part of extra duties, I was trained how to cut, mark, and price fabric.

I laughed out loud once while doing it, because fate is giving me my horsewhipping.

She'll get a big kick out of that this weekend when I tell her.