Sew many dreams, so little talent.

“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”
― Alexander Pope


Sewing machines hate me.

It's not that they don't enjoy my company... like the random person who happens to be somewhere in your social circle, but whom you try to avoid actually spending one on one time with, because you can never seem to figure out what to talk about.

No they hate me.

Harm themselves to get out of spending time with me

As in, if you walked into a restaurant and saw your worst enemy sitting next to your best friend, you would throw yourself onto the nearest open flame just to spend time in the burn unit instead of with this person.

At first I thought it was just my mother's machine.

I was convinced it was just old.  And needed my mother's years of experience to understand it's quirks.
 
The bobbin spits back out at me.

The thread snarls up.

Then I snarl up a bit.

 And eventually my mother just comes over and fixes what ever I just screwed up.

 Honestly, the last time I asked her opinion on how to sew something she just took it from me and did it herself.

Her exact words were "No it's faster if I just do it, if I let you touch it, you'll just screw it up"

It was said with love.  And it was the truth.

I decided last year, that now that I'm a real live grown up (with a baby of my own to prove my legit-ness in the grown-up department) it was time to buy my own sewing machine.  One that came out of the factory at least a decade or two after I came out of the womb.

 One that would work magically, would never tangle a thread, or pop a spool, or eat my shorts (or fabric intended to become shorts). It would make all of my crafty dreams come true.

Dreamer that I am, I'm also a skinflint, and could never justify spending $200 on something I didn't really need (because no matter how much I want to blame the machine, I know in my heart of hearts, I don't actually have any sewing skills).
 
 Then like the Fairy Godmother appeared to Cinderella. A beautiful Singer was dropped into my lap. Ready to make all of my sewing dreams come true.

 Well it was given to me... nobody actually dropped it on me. But for all the good I've done with it, maybe they should have just thrown it at my head and knocked some sense into me.

 I spent three months, on my last sewing project. It should have taken a normal person 2 hours.

Now please consider, that all sewing activities, no matter how much I may want to do them, have to come last on my list of priorities.

That list is not short these days.

First and foremost there is a cute little ball of energy that needs constant attention, feedings, diaper changes, and general guidance on the safety of climbing or chewing on anything he can get his hands on.

Then there is the dog... who as you may have noticed from previous posts, requires a fair bit of energy.

Add to that a business to run, a house to keep in some sort of order for fear someone call child services on me for only running my vacuum once a month, and on top of that, society actually expects me to keep up a certain level of personal hygiene.

 Somedays I accomplish most of these things. Others I'm surprised that my Stronger Half finds us all still alive when he comes home from work.

Sewing comes last. (um or maybe blogging comes last, if my lack of new posts haven't made that clear).

 But in the event that every other priority is either taken care of, or deemed reasonably non-life threatening to put off until tomorrow.... I haul out the machine and get cursing.

Tonight was one of those blessed nights.... I started a little project, and needed to sew eight simple lines to complete it. It was barely even worth dragging the machine out of the closet.

But like I said before.. fairy tale dreams of what I can do with this machine. I had come to the conclusion that all of my previous troubles were caused by dollar store materials.

My "out of the regular realm of sewing" type projects and my general lack of control when it comes to speed with a foot peda,l were also contenders in the "How the hell does she screw this up so much" mystery.

What ever the reason, I was willing to meet in the middle and take some of the responsibility for our past altercations. I needed to get on good terms with this machine, so we could go on to bring all of the magical fabric themed fantasies I have to life.

 So armed with Coats and Clark thread. Three different sets of three different name brand needles, and a project with out crazy material like PUL. I decided to rekindle our broken relationship.

 In response, the needle snapped clear off while I was threading the machine.

 Not even while sewing or using the presser foot... simply turning the wheel to pull up the bobbin thread caused this.

 That's the equivalent of a dog gnawing off his own foot when you  say you want to take it for a walk.

So tonight I give up. I will pack away my threads and bobbins and three packages of new brand-name needles, and dreams of being a professional seamstress for another day.  Tonight was a lesson, although I can't quite figure out which one it was.

"Don't quit your day job."

"Great expectations lead to great disappointment?"

Or, since I know I will forget the frustration of this evening, and like a herion addict returns to their dealer, I will haul the stupid machine out and try again someday.

"It is easier to forgive your enemy than your friend."

Once upon an accident....

Falling down became second nature and it really didn't bother me.
Nancy Kerrigan

So last week I fell off my Bicycle.

One second I was upright, the next I was facing the ground with the dog dragging me across the driveway.

A friend told me I should blog about it.

The only problem with that idea is, the wounds are still a little too fresh.

Not to my pride, that's used to being bruised by dumbass accidents.

But my actual wounds still hurt.. my knee still bleeds if I bend it too much, I can't do anything more strenuous than walking to the bathroom with out a knee brace, and the bruises, although not as bright, are still covering 85% of my lower body.

so needless to say, all I can think to write about the situation is....

I went for a bike ride. I fell. It sucked.

Perhaps with a little time it will get funnier, and I can blog about it. For now it's just a story about how everything in life this week has been slightly more difficult than need be.

On the other hand... I have fallen off things before, and those wounds have healed nicely.. so let me tell you about the time I fell off the horse....

It was a few years ago in in the Dominican Republic. A group of us decided to go horseback riding.

Now let me just clarify, that I don't actually know the first thing about riding a horse, other than it is simply something I feel the urge to do every single vacation.

It's like drinking one of those kamikaze drinks, it's not something you do on your average weekend, or something that is necessarily a good idea, or even something you particularly enjoyed the last time you did it.

Yet still you think you should since you are on vacation. It's time to do something stupid.

This rodeo ranch actually come up and above par for Caribbean horseback riding. The horses are strong and healthy looking, well groomed, most of them seem to be under the age of 75.

And the trail we are taking is a nice ride along a beach.

This goes far beyond a shorter horse back ride that we had taken earlier in the vacation with another tour group.

That "trail" involved the driveway to the ranch, and a back road. We rode on horses that aren't much bigger than your standard size poodle... and I'm pretty sure one of them whispered to me that he was the original "Silver" from the Lone Ranger.

Add to that, the fact that the workers rode mopeds and zipped back and forth up and down the road yelling to the horses to get moving and you get a not so very enjoyable ride.

That what happened when you pay $15 in the DR.

When you pay $65 you get healthy horses and a beautiful beach. You get tour guides who are so good at riding they actually stand up on their saddles to check on everyone. Quite impressive.

Before we head out on the trail we all pose for photo ops on our strong healthy horses, and Rachel mentions that I look lopsided... I checked my bathing suit top and then thought nothing more of it...

(Just kidding, I don't think I actually checked anything... I was on a horse!! Life was Awesome!!!! Who cares if I'm crooked???)

Apparently the horse does.

A half hour into the ride, we have made it the entire way down the beach. Some horses are taking their own sweet time (mine) and some are full tilt running.

It looks really cool..... everyone who is not running, is trying to urge their horse on to run. We all want to be having as much fun as Lee and Carla, who have the horses trying to race each other to be in front.

We can tell it's fun because of their shouts of joy.

Suddenly, just like on the bike, I am one second upright, and then I am sideways.

My horse does not enjoy this, so he rears up and I fall flat on my back.

I'm not really hurt, because we are on sand dunes, but I'm petrified I did something wrong to piss it off.

(The saddle had actually come loose, and scared the horse. No one figured that out at the time, which is why the next series of events unfolded as they did).

One of the trail leaders comes over with a "Please don't sue our ass" look on his face, asking if I'm alright.

I'm fine and I'm just asking if the horse is mad. I really don't want to get back on a horse that hates me.

(While I fully believe if you fall off a horse you should get back on, I do think there is a loophole there somewhere for horses that are having a slight case of PMS.)

So since we are an hours walk back from the ranch, the leader tells me I can have his horse, and he'll take mine.

What a plan.

I stupidly agree. And so instead of falling off a little horse and getting back on it, I fall off a little horse and get back on one that is twice as big.

After heaving myself into the saddle I realize the mistake.

And as I open my mouth to mention that maybe I am a little more afraid on the big horse and I'd rather take the little angry guy... my horses instincts kick in.

He is a horse that is usually only rode by one of those Dominican cowboy leaders that can do things like handstands on the saddle.

He is also used to being in front of the group... you know, leading everyone.

So that's what he decides to do. Go from the back of the group... to the front a half mile ahead of us.

And since I actually have no idea wtf to do on a horse, I can do nothing but hold on for dear life, as we run the entire length of the beach.

People cheer me on as I pass them.

As I pull closer to Lee and Carla, I realize their shouts of joy, are actually screams of terror.

I know this because they sound exactly like mine.

My most valuable lesson learned from this experience, is that I am a fast healer.

The scars I have on my shins from the saddle are pretty much non existent now, three years later.

So that give me hope, that even those I look like a six year old these days, with Band-Aids covering my knees by the time I'm thirty I'll have adult legs again.

That is if I can manage not to fall off anything between now and then.