It's been twelve days now, stranded on this desert island- and there is no sewing in sight. The camera batteries died over a week ago. Lighting McQueen Bubble Machine and Kid #1's tv remote tried to donate, but they just weren't compatible. I fear it wouldn't matter anyway. There is nothing to photograph.
On day seven I spied a hope off the shore- it was the JoAnn's weekend sale. But alas, despite my shouting and frantic arm waving, I just couldn't flag it down. It sailed on by.
I have been scouting the island for anything that could be used in constructing the Amy Butler bags, but nothing here has a strong enough fiber content.
Kid #2's fever has finally broken after three days of madness and things too horrible to describe. I was forced to let another ship sail on by- the Jomar pleasure cruise. Through my makeshift lens I spied crazy knits, 2$/yard prices, and a deck party that included Karen and Kisha. Floating over the water came decadently bitchy laughter. I knew it from somewhere- Project Runway season one, perhaps? But the big ol' ship turned abruptly into the sun and disappeared.
I am separated from base camp, where the leather skirt is hanging, awaiting a major dart reconstruction. Even if I could cross the wasteland back into that region, I doubt I would have the strength to perform such a delicate operation in such an unpredictable environment.
I don't know how long I can hold out here. If I could just get those sleeves basted into the jacket, I'd have a chance at escaping... but everytime I make a move I am thwarted by the natives. I have yet to decipher their language- it's almost as if I am a god and a slave to them (especially that big one). I've discovered that they are distracted by high levels of ice cream and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson movies. I'm hoping that tonight, after cover of nightfall, I can make my move.
Captain's Log, supplemental:
see how his eyes reflected the light? I think he was rotating one eye away from the flash at the shutter moment.