I make stuff.

It's true: I'm one of those women who can be classified as "crafty," and it scares the shit out of me. Here's why it's so frightening: I come from a family filled with women like this who have created countless hideous crafts and subsequently ruined their previously tasteful homes by placing these crafts on unsuspecting walls, tables, and any other available surfaces. My mom is one of the worst offenders: in the past year, she has ruined six perfectly good chairs by stenciling pink roses on them; desecrated a wicker table, which was once brown but is now burgundy "flecked" (aka, spray painted) with gold; and made a mockery of the chandelier above her dining room table by covering it in rose-printed fabric. And these are just her latest offenses against good taste. For years I have been sneering at straw hats decorated in pastel silk flowers, stuffed barnyard animals wearing bonnets, and lace edging on every piece of fabric in sight. And I have always sworn that this would NEVER EVER EVER be me.

But I'm helpless: my compulsion to make things has overpowered my fear of being like my mother and having bad taste (which, sadly, are often the same fear). I may be in the process of becoming what I hate. Ever since I was a teenager, other friends with crafty moms and I have frequently discussed when the turning point occurs, and how. Do you wake up one day and randomly think, "Must have mauve calico curtains immediately!" Or is it a slippery slope, one that leads you from thinking a little bit of lace on the edge of the shams would be pretty to displaying stuffed geese in nineteenth-century outfits on your mantle?

Well, now I know: it's apparently a slippery slope. But, I stubbornly insist that the pillow shams I made for my friend Jill last week are not at all mom-like, and that while they may be the first sign that my judgment is devolving, they're still...pretty cool. She thought so, anyway.

Here's the concise version of what I did: Jill and I went fabric shopping at IKEA and (the dreaded) Jo-Ann Fabrics. Jill picked out bright green, turquoise, and eggplant fabrics and contrasting thread. I borrowed several pillows she wanted to cover, designed some patterns, and used my mom's sewing machine to stitch the shams. Then, I found several Art Nouveau designs in a book Jill lent me, sketched them onto cardstock, and turned them into stencils. Finally, I applied fabric paint (no, NOT the puffy kind that victimized me in the early '90s) with a "sponcer" (a sponge for stenciling). Here's the results:



Now, I know what you're thinking: a trip to Jo-Ann fabrics? Fabric paint? STENCILS??? This is dangerous territory. And I agree. But, for the record, I'd like to state that Jill and I made sure to ridicule the soccer moms buying ice cream cone-printed fabric destined for mother-daughter jumpers, and we relived nightmarish puffy-paint experiences while picking out fabric paint just to remind ourselves that this project was SO MUCH different than that.

I insist that I have not yet slipped into style oblivion, which seems to me like the tenth circle of hell. But you be the judge.