the weather the cuckoo likes

March 11, 2016

What has happened, is this.

For years, since I was a little girl sewing doll clothes and ill fated, lopsided creations for my baby sisters, I have longed for a serger. Screw folding the hem over and sewing it that way. Who needs a tidy hem? The raw serged edges are plenty cute enough.

When I was a wild young thing, stitching up shirts and dresses to make them fit both my shoulders and waist at the same time, and piecing patches into all my favorite bits of clothing, I longed for a serger. Take a dying sweater to lively sleeveless knit in like two wallops.

Now that I am an old lady, quietly, desperately spreading out of and taxing the seams of all my cute things, altering them madly left and right so I can keep my hand in, I long for a serger.

Oh wait, no I don’t. At long last, an incarnation of self actually has a serger. Go old lady self!

After several uneasy months of watching tutorials and getting my nerve up and then losing it and procrastinating and then forgetting about it for awhile, tonight I finally hauled that sucker out. If we go by my estimation, it took me a half hour to thread it; and if we go by Jason’s it was an hour. Suffice to say, a good quantity of forebrain, curse words, hand-eye coordination, mouth breathing, and resorting to tweezers passed, and then suddenly there it all was, and I stepped on the pedal.

Flowers exploded in my head. Angels or birds or whatever sang.

Behohold it worketh.


The world is my oyster, as they say; also the moon, on a string.

I am


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