My sewing machine kicked my ass. There, I admitted it. For months it just sat there, glaring at me from the shelf in the garage and the bags of fabric from JoAnn sat in the closet, lonely and neglected. I brought in the sewing machine last night and no, I wasn't imagining things, it really was taunting me as I walked by in the garage, it knows I'm intimidated by it. Martha Stewart I am not.
After a couple hours of fighting with it (WTF? Why do the stitches look like that? Gah!) I chucked the damn thing back into the garage (it's lucky I didn't just toss it out into the snowy yard), poured a big glass of wine and went back to my serger. There's something slightly ironic about the fact that I'm on better terms with the serger than the sewing machine.
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