The Trouble With My Sewing Machine

First things first. I like to sew.
In fact, I make some of my own clothes.

But this does NOT, under any circumstances,  mean that I have a "good personality."

Just so we're straight.

That said, I'm having a bit of trouble with my sewing machine.

It's nothing fancy - just a Kenmore workhorse, on a rolling cart home made out of plywood, plumbing pipes, and casters. It's been a trusty companion for many years, ever since my husband purchased it in order to clean up my vocabulary (my last sewing machine was a bit temperamental; may it and it's schizophrenic tension knob rot in hell.)

The trouble actually has nothing to do with the huge dent evident in its side, since my daughter decided to perform a gravity experiment on a  finely tuned piece of machinery. No, in that case I just bent back the offended parts as best I could, and oiled it up to show it I was truly sorry (these things are important with sewing machines. No one knows why.) It's been stitching away fairly reliably (if a little more loudly) ever since.

No, the trouble I'm having is related to some high-pitched inaudible, odorless, colorless emission that causes every living household inhabitant to gather in the room in which it is operating.

For a long time, I kept the machine rolled away in the coat closet, for easy access from the kitchen/family room area. During that time, I didn't notice the phenomenon, since everybody hangs around in the kitchen anyway, in case cake should suddenly make an appearance. I accepted the crowding issue as just a side effect of my ill-conceived (though entirely logical) sewing strategy: to co-locate with the largest horizontal layout and cutting surfaces.

But I had increasing issues  with pins.
Pins are a major hazard of sewing, unless you happen to live alone in a concrete bunker. As it stands, there are two kids, two adults, a dog, a cat, and four hermit crabs in my house, each trying to cause serious personal injury by impaling body parts on stray pins.

In order to avoid blowing my clothes savings on visits to the emergency room, I was forced to color code and number my pins, and check them out of the pin vault individually. I modeled this process after the procedure by which one borrows a towel at a resort pool - including the major credit card and "mother's maiden name" part. You just can't be too careful.

Unfortunately, it was taking me months to complete even the simplest projects, just on the pin paperwork. So I was forced to consider an alternative sewing venue. A carpeted room was out of the question (carpet = pin minefield) so I ended up in, well, my bathroom. Sure, it's the size of a phone booth. But if I set up the ironing board in the bathtub, it works. And there's even a convenient, um, seat!

This is when I noticed the aforementioned problem of the strange attractive quality my machine seems to possess.

Now I know you're going to point out that it may not be the sewing machine. The bathroom itself could account for this anomaly - as any mother knows (just try to pass a quiet few minutes in there, and see what happens.)

But that would only account for the presence of two children. What of the husband and pets? The power of the attraction simply cannot be explained by the bathroom alone. It must be the sewing machine!

As supporting evidence, I present an additional behavioral aberrations associated with said machine. The very act of pressing the pedal (which sends the needle into movement) causes one of the attending creatures to ask a question.

"Mom, how is my tongue attached to my head?"

Whereupon, based on the maternal patience clause, I must suspend sewing long enough to answer, "Zig-zag stitch, honey."

I've timed it. The migration to the bathroom takes roughly 12 seconds. A little longer if the "sewing machine waves" have to permeate brick siding. Where is Marlin Perkins when you need him?

I'm thinking of taking the machine to the shop, to see if I can get it looked at by a qualified specialist (exorcist?) But I'm waiting for interest rates to drop some more, because you know what those guys charge. 

In the mean time, I've taken to barricading the door with the pile of folded laundry that hasn't made it back into the drawers yet. If that doesn't do the trick, I may have to resort to wielding  my pins irresponsibly.

I told you I didn't have a good personality.