April Winchell

If you read my blog last week, you know that I am the proud owner of a new sewing machine.

This was all brought about by my finding a web site called etsy, which is sort of an eBay for the talented. I have been poring over that site for weeks now, just entranced at what people can do with a needle and thread and a glue gun. I wanted to join the party, even though I wasn't invited.

Now, in my defense, I should make it clear that I do have some sewing experience. I made a gym bag in junior high, for example, and a brown dress using a pattern and one of those wheel things and chalk. So I've put in my time. Of course, the dress never fit properly, but that's only because both of my arms are the same size.

I decided it was a good time to get back into it again. And I started thinking about about getting a sewing machine.

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, but I didn't think that applied here. After all, I'm older now, and tend to read directions more thoroughly than when I was a teenager. And I like to think I have a good deal more patience now. Of course, I also like to think that peanut M&Ms don't make you fat because they're magic.

So it all seemed ordained when my friend Gina told me she had a brand new sewing machine, still in the box, sitting in storage. Clearly, the universe wanted me to sew. And who am I to argue with destiny?

The machine arrived a few days ago, and it's a beauty. I set it up on the dining room table and read the manual, teaching myself how to thread the bobbin, lower the presser foot, change the stitch pattern and work the foot pedal. It was thrilling.

It became obvious at this point that I needed things. You can only thread the bobbin so many times before you start jonesing for fabric, and I was there. So I hotfooted it down to the craft store yesterday, whch, as luck would have it, is only a few blocks away.

Holy hell, what a wonderland.

Pins, needles, thread, felt, yarn, pinking shears, the whole deal. My arms were aching with the load I was carrying around the store. But as great as it was, it was nothing compared to the real pleasure of the excursion; the storage system.

As much as paraphernalia delights me, nothing gets me giddier than having a tidy little place to put it all. Good God, that just does it for me. Things specifically created to house certain objects are like a drug to me, and sewing is lousy with them. Thread spool holders, needle separators, bead boxes … containers that serve no other purpose than to hold those things and those things only. And if you can find a container that shaped like the thing that goes in it, like say, a scissor container shaped like a pair of scissors, well, that's it. I'm spent just thinking about it.

$150 later, I'm back home with bags full of crap that now have to be opened and put into their respective containers. It occurs to me that this is how you amuse a profoundly retarded child.

So here we are. Everything in its place, fabric to work with, things to try. What do I make? There are so many things I'd like to be able to create, my head is swimming with possibility.

A few hours later, I have this.

I think I've found my calling.