Actually, now that I stub my toe on it, there was one fly in the weekend’s ointment: my beloved toy-like sewing machine is dead. I discovered this while crafting (I love double meanings!) the finishing touches of last night’s Yule gift for my coven-sister. This sweet little machine had two speeds, Bunny and Turtle (I kid you not, those are the icons), and has been my trusty companion through Star Trek outfits, several Renaissance faires, ritual robes, Hallowe’en costumes, curtains, skirts, dresses, coats and cloaks for eight years now. It was a gift from my parents, and I don’t know how long any of us truly expected it to last, being such lightweight plastic.
I have a couple of options: I can take it into a repair shop and pay goodness knows how much for an evaluation and/or repair, or I can think about a new sewing machine. A grown-up one. Ceri and I were talking about this when she was doing the research to invest in her own machine a couple of years ago. I ought to be responsible and take my sweet little toy in to at least be looked at. I owe it at least that much after mercilessly subjecting it to heavy tapestry fabrics and thick wool that were all theoretically too much for it to handle. With whispered words of encouragement, the occasional prayer and the even rarer swift kick or hard knock, it got the job done, though, no matter what I asked of it.
Until last night, that is. Last night’s project was completed entirely by hand, with the help of a curved needle (why haven’t I ever used one of these before?), a glue gun, and a passle of cats who were very interested in the feathers I was using.
Naturally, as my sewing machine is down for the count, I desperately want to sew again. Let’s hear it for human nature.