Most of you know by now that I’m into crocheting. It’s my creative hobby away from my writing. It keeps my creative juices flowing while I’m not actively writing. I have my crocheting; Saxon has her fabric art. I bought her a sewing machine a couple of months ago and ever since she has been cutting up old clothes and scouring flea markets for material. Some days I wonder where she disappeared to, then I hear the whir of the sewing machine from upstairs.
Last night, the machine stopped whirring and several minutes later, Saxon bounded down the stairs, exclaiming, “Look what I just made!”
I looked it over. It was a purse with a zipper. “This is so cool,” I said. “You did a great job with the zipper.”
“Thanks,” she said, beaming.
I handed it back to her. “Will you make me a purse next? Just like that one, but red.”
Saxon looked at me, mortified. “This isn’t a purse.”
“It isn’t? Then what is it?”
“Well, it’s not a purse.” She said the word ‘purse’ like it tasted bad.
“It looks like a purse to me.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s a… bag. I made it to hold all my stuff.”
I nodded. “That’s what a purse does. It holds all your stuff.”
“This is a BAG. I put my wallet in it. My kindle. My chapstick. So I can have all my stuff in one easy-to-locate bag.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “That would be the definition of a purse.”
“It’s not a fuckin’ purse,” she said.
“I don’t know what the big deal is. You made yourself a purse, so what? It’s pretty.”
“It’s not a purse,” she grumbled under her breath.
“Okay, okay,” I relented. “It’s not a purse. It’s a pretty little bag that you carry under you arm like a clutch purse only it’s not.”
Saxon stalked out of the room and stomped up the stairs. I went back to my crocheting and said under my breath, “It’s a purse.”
“It’s not a PURSE!” she yelled from upstairs.
Something tells me I haven’t heard the last of this.
To Be Continued…
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