After my flurry of Easter sewing activities my sewing machine went on strike. No matter what I tried, the string kept breaking immediately when I tried to sew anything and got stuck in the inner workings.
Yesterday I dragged Ralf back to the shop where we bought the machine to get it fixed. As you can imagine, he loved the opportunity to carry a sewing machine four city blocks.
The sewing machine repairman, a young guy in mechanic overalls surrounded by sewing machines in various stages of repair, plugged it in and immediately proceeded to show off all the different stitches my machine is capable of.
His verdict was that I had threaded it wrong.
Ralf's verdict is that next time he's going to marry someone less lame.
My verdict was that they can both bite me.
So that the trip wouldn't be totally wasted, I bought some new bobbins. I pulled my wallet out of my purse to pay and watched in dismay as various decrepit receipts scattered to the four winds. Sighing, I handed the wallet to Ralf while I gathered up all my bits of paper.
Ralf looked like he was thinking something like: 'I can't believe I have children with this person.'
Then he remarked out loud to the sewing machine guy: 'Women's purses are scary as hell.'
'Oh, yeah,' agreed the sewing machine guy with feeling, 'and then if we leave, like, one sock on the floor they totally rip us a new one!'