I JUST BOUGHT A SEWING MACHINE AND STITCHED MY OWN MORTALITY TO MY FACE

Ugh. How old am I?

I'm depressed, that's how old I am.

I just got a sewing machine. A sewing machine. And it wasn't a gift either.

I went out and bought it myself. FOR myself. Because I WANTED one. Because I NEEDED one. To sew stars on their ghis. And to hem his pants. And, apparently, to make a Mommy doll. (NO! NOT FOR ME!)

But here's the thing. I SUCK AT IT!!

I do. And I'm woman enough to admit that.

But it makes no logical sense to me...with the bobbin (which I had to resort to letting Amy do because I was about to fling the whole thing through the back sliding door), and the threading and rethreading through the vast maze of hooks and nooks and crannies, and the infinite number of stitches one can choose, and the gazillion knobs and buttons and hidden flip switches.

Ugh, just give me a deconstructed computer...or a box full of TV components with a tangle of unlabeled wires and cables, or any old hand-held device...with no instructions...and blindfolded, even, and I'll be fine.

But this...this is just so FAST! And it's mean. And it scares me. It really does. And I don't scare easily. But I'm gonna have nightmares about this thing.

Saw I-VI, no prob! But this SINGER?!?! Oooey, cu-cuoooey, man!! This is just a whole other level of TERROR!!!!!

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