Foiled.

My sister is the muse of domesticity. Having spent many years in her company, I have developed certain of the domestic arts: I cook, I knit, I sew, I quilt*. I made an egregious mistake a couple years ago. My mother asked if I thought I would need a sewing machine, because she'd found a great deal and was buying one for herself and for Amber. I said no, I didn't think I had a place to put it. This was a stupid move of epic proportions. Those machines are awesome. Instead, now that I have need of a sewing machine, I have inherited Mom's old machine, which, as I recall, stutters and shivers when it is used. I have to reach back in my memory, because although I possess the machine, I do not possess its power cord, and therefore cannot ascertain whether it still shivers, or even if it still works. This is depressing, because a few weeks ago I paid an enormous sum for some gorgeous fabric, thread, and fluff in order to create drapes and a quilt for Abby's room, and pillow covers for our couch. All that good stuff is now sitting on various pieces of furniture, being clutter instead of couture. So now I must wait for the cord to arrive in the mail, and then I must plead for the muse's indulgence so that I can finish my crafts.

*This reminds me of Spanish classes. Cocino, cocinas, cocinamos . . . :)