I got a sewing machine for Christmas and it's not just any sewing machine, it's my Grandma's sewing machine. Being ninety-five and unable to see pretty much anything, she decided it was time to pass it down. And since my mom is not the sewing type (she's more the reading, crossword puzzles, i buy my clothes and i like it that way type) it skipped on down the line to yours truly.
I have been asking for said machine for a few years now. I'm a mom now and I consider myself somewhat crafty. I have a hot glue gun and I'm pretty sure that's what makes it official.
So I looked up a few cute projects to bide my waiting-for-baby time and I'm raring to go with this new/gently used/loved sewing machine. It's been placed on the dining room table and prepared to go for a few weeks now. I even placed the sewing box my mom gave me and scattered a few notions around to see what it would look like when I actually started sewing stuff.
I can't lie. It didn't look natural. Even after I did a test-run on a piece of random scrap fabric AND put out the measuring tape AND bought new sewing* scissors.
Project one is to make a book pocket for the Ladybug's books to be displayed and easy to get to while she hangs out in her IKEA bunky-type bed. The site I found it on even said a person with minimal sewing skills can pull it off. Minimal. That describes most of my skill-sets to a tee.
So I plan the project. Buy the fabric (1.99- what a steal), find the dowells (3.00 for both), and then hunt for the curtain brackets I need to fix it to the wall. That is another post for another day. I may have to find some on the interwebs.
I have the stuff. I have the machine. I even have it loaded and plugged in. I try my best to think it out and pin it properly and then I sit down and give it a go. It's a 42 inch straight line. I can so do this, I'm thinking.
And then I put my foot gently down onto the contraption I am now referring to as THE PEDAL OF DEATH.
Keep in mind that I have already zig-zagged up a piece of fabric and I know what the pedal is capable of. The reality of this book-hanging-pocket-evil rests in the balance of my two hands and the heft of my right bare-foot. That changes things drastically. My foot depresses POD, fabric is sucked into the machine and suddenly my face feels like it looks like I'm having a root canal.
You decide what that looks like. I'm sure you're not far off.
Well if I redefined "minimal sewing skills" then I might as well go ahead and call Merriam-Webster and give them my new thoughts on the word straight. Eh-hem. It was my first try. It works. I put the dowell through the little tunnel of fabric I made and it fit and it doesn't look that wonky. I assumed the first shot at it would be the side I put closest to the wall, anyway.
Side two. At this point, I'm a seasoned professional. I pin the new side and stick it in the machine. I didn't sew my fingers to the fabric last time, so I really have nothing left to worry about, right?
Same scenario. Initiate POD, commence root-canal facial, hold breath until all 42 inches have been sucked into and then spit out of machine. The difference this time was not fatal. Well. Physically to my person. To my book-pocket-hanger-of-contempt, fatal would be the right word.
Had I re-threaded the needle (i need to do that?), the stitches would have been...well...stitches and my project would have been ninety-percent complete.
Right now it's leaning on the not-gonna-complete side of the spectrum, but I'll let you know if I can find another use for my three foot long dowells and wonky stitched fabric.
It actually might work as a flag of surrender.
Rest In Peace, Megs
1 day ago