SassyBlonde

I am so over the sewing machine trauma. *sigh*

Years ago, when my grandmother passed away, my mom snagged her sewing machine for me from the melee that was the divestment of my grandparents' affairs. It was lovely, it was almost functional, and it was covered in a thick, shellac-like layer of cigarette tar.* Like most machines of its ilk, this Singer 401A was built like a tank and pretty much chugged along no matter what you threw at it, ick notwithstanding. It had its quirks, but it got all of the basics done with not much drama. Until last fall that is.

While I was working on the Great Bridesmaid's Dress Debacle, it decided to throw me for a loop and pop the tension knob right out into my lap, mid-seam. Now, anybody with a sewing machine knows this is a twist of epic proportions, because nothing can turn a project into a great big cluster-fuck like a machine with tension problems. I simply threw up my hands, hobbled on my broken toe to the phone and called in reinforcements in the form of the lovely Heidelah and her new sewing machine. Ever sine then my poor machine has sat broken and forlorn in the corner while my unfinished projects collect dust in the trunk in the corner.

Fast forward to two weeks ago, when I finally got my crap in order and schlepped it off to the repairman, to the tune of $130 in fees. And still no dice, because the tension is so caked with tar that it breaks the thread. I was so sick I wanted to throw something, so I gave up and found a new machine just like it on eBay.

A "new" machine? Huh? Weren't those kind of machines made back in the Fifties?

Darn tootin', and still better than then new plastic ones made today by a long shot. Everyone I've ever talked to just oohs and aahs over them, saying how they wishesd machines now were still made as well. I managed to find one on eBay that was pristine, carrying case and all. Got a deal paid the lady, and waited patiently for her to send it. And when it arrived?

Broken.

Apparently, even though the seller is an antique dealer, she failed to pack it properly, and it got totally destroyed in shipping. Cracked enamel, broken parts, screwed-up mechanism. It was thrown around so hard inside the carrying case that it actually punched holes in the sides. (I will say this, she's been a peach about the whole thing so far-- we're discussing refund options.) Nevertheless, I'm left, once again, with a broken machine. And projects lying forlorn and unfinished in the dust. *sigh*

The worst part of it all is that to get a new machine that does all of the things my fifty-year-old one does, I'll have to shell out almost all of the money I just made from selling my old soprano sax. *double sigh*

I really need to win a job.


*(My grandparents were basically chain smokers most of their lives, indoors and out. The smell of that machine when it gets warm always reminds me of a story by my friend Mike about a smoker guy and his cat. That's all I can tell you, but I just wanted to put that out there. Some things stay with you in strange ways-- that's the mark of good art I think.)

I am an inveterate procrastinator at heart. Most projects I undertake get finished at crunch time or not at all, and I'm a creature of deadlines and to-do lists for a reason: if I don't have a deadline I'll never finish. Sometimes that's because I overbook myself or burn out, but usually it's just because I forget or it falls off my radar until I'm down to the wire.

Now this can become a real problem when it comes to my philosophy of gift giving, especially for events like weddings and baby showers: I hate giving nondescript stuff off registries, or at least to give only that kind of thing-- I've had way too good of an example set for me by Sister Sassy and my aunt in terms of thoughtful giving. This of course means that I have to plan ahead, and well, you can see where that train of thought leads.

Procrastination was definitely the case for my friend's baby shower today-- I had a great idea for a gift weeks ago and simply got too busy with painting, cleaning and concert PR and let it slip my mind until my commute last night to the theatre. Crap, I thought, and resigned myself to another night of watching the Olympics like a zombie while I worked.

I had hit on the idea a while ago to do a watercolor calligraphy setting of this poem for her newly decorated nursery, but just hadn't dug out my aquarelle pencils and paper, so that's what I did when I got home. Hour by painstaking hour I outlined, inked, and washed, and eventually was left with the piece that I wrapped up for her this morning before I left, never having seen my bed and having burned through about five episodes of Jeremiah and a lot of esoteric sports coverage.

I honestly have to say it was worth it, though-- after opening mounds of cutely wrapped bibs, blankets, clothes and equipment, she was eventually handed my brown-paper-wrapped packages (note to self: if your package doesn't have riotous scrawls of pink and blue or puppies on it, the Vera Bradley-toting shower coordinator will place it at the back or under the table like a red-headed stepchild no matter how big or small it is) and after pulling the paper open, her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me close. (It didn't hurt either that the other gift made her howl with laughter.) At least I hit this one out of the park, even if it was last minute. Woohoo!