The cold has finally won, driving me into the house in search of some color and life. Quilting seemed like a great way to get a little spring of life in my day. Everything was quite zen until everything fell apart and died.
Let me just say, if you hear a weird sound when you are stitching- if you feel resistance from the thread- STOP everything... and call someone not emotionally involved in the situation (i.e. a man). I did not stop. I attempted to repair the situation by starting over a hundred times before the poor machine just stopped responding to me.
From there, I still couldn't leave things alone. Instead I linked on to the troubleshooter web page and went into a full on panic at their advice to take the bobbin area apart for a good cleaning. After a few cups of coffee and a brisk walk- you guessed it- I braced myself and dismembered the poor machine one screw at a time.
It seems a small lamb had taken up residence there in the bobbin chamber and died a sad, lonely death leaving behind his fleece. The trouble shooter web guy assured me this would solve my problems. Doubtful, but in desperate need of finishing what I started, I proceeded to do what the back of my mind told me not to do. You guessed it. I murdered my machine.
No one was home to see the look of horror that surely crossed my face when the bobbin cover leaped out from under the fabric, followed by the bobbin case jumping halfway out- setting somewhat askew under the fabric where the needed was jammed down in the machine resulting in a giant hole in the fabric. There are no words people. No words.
A few deep breaths and a web cam pic later the trouble shooter guy completely gave up on me advising I stop touching the poor thing and let a professional handle it. This put me in "how to tell the husband" mode. You know the one. "Hey, honey, I know the car is broke down but, guess what- I murdered the million dollar sewing machine today and need to take it in." I know my man- this will not bode well.
Defeated and lying on the floor in tears, my phone interrupted the melt down. My mom with a little
'what's up?' text. Thumbs flew as I confessed my sins. Over pops Dad; long time sewing machine savior, confident he could resurrect my poor thing.
After quite a time of painful machine surgery and a little scolding about making sure I am not sewing with a bent needle (which, of course, I argued I was not doing- sigh)... he assured me the machine was up, running, and in perfectly good help. No further medical attention necessary. I was doubtful, arguing that the second problem was fixed, but there was a first problem that he hadn't dealt with. Not deterred by my fit, he left me- confident in his work.
Shamefully I confess there was a time of sipping coffee and pouting- putting off the inevitable 'test run'. Here.. for the whole world to see.. he was right. Clean bobbin case, new needle, and the thing works like nothing ever happened. I paid him in cake- home made, from scratch, pound of butter in the batter cake (and a hearty confession that he was right). I will never live this down.
In the end, stitch therapy did happen... along with a hearty dose of humility.
