Sewing, glorious sewing

I meant to be good at the fabric store, I really did. But then I got out of the car and went in 

                            

                                            Measure twice. Cut once. Curse. Repeat.

 No, my sewing room is not messy. I just have everything out on display. Like a museum.

 The only place housework comes before quilting is in the dictionary.

Don’t be silly doctor! This is a “fabric stash,” not a “hoarding disorder.”

 “I will not buy any fabric until I use my fabric stash at home,” I said. And then I laughed and laughed.

 That secret happy dance you do when you realize you are finally done hand-cutting all 9,000,000,000,000 squares for that quilt.

 Fabric is so addictive that it should be a controlled substance.

It’s all fun and games until the bobbin runs out.

 You know you are a quilter if your ironing board is always set up, but you never iron clothes.

 Stitchin’, Bitchin’, and Braless. A quilter’s life is good.

 Sometimes I think maybe I should do something besides sew. . . then I realize how silly I’m being and go back to sewing.

 Of course I talk to myself when I craft. Sometimes I need expert advice.

 I’m in therapy, and sewing is cheaper than a psychiatrist.