If that’s true, what can we expect of annoying things? Do they come in fives? Eights? Eights to the nth power?
We’re in one of those pesky annoying stretches around here.
First, it was the brakes on the car. Again. They grind and make other scary sounds. The car is, admittedly, 12 years old but still.
Then it was the water heater, refusing to do what water heaters are designed to do.
Then it was the sump pump, giving notice that it had been worked too hard and was retiring from service. The sump pump repair guy came yesterday, which meant we had to cancel our planned outing to Montreal’s Marché Jean-Talon, which, in turn, left me blog-postless today. Instead of photos of lush fruit and lovely veg in a fabulous urban setting, you get whining. It’s not my fault.
And, as if it wasn’t enough that all the machines around here have decided to break down at once, our craft heaven on the banks of Lake Champlain has turned, if not into hell, at least into a little bit of purgatory.
We’ve had twisted threads, uneven tension, and big gloppy tangles of threads on the looms. Color combinations that sounded striking in theory and are oh-so-boring in reality. I have repeatedly lost my place in my weaving pattern (every time a repairman comes to the door!), at which time I stand and look blankly at the loom and wonder why, why would I want to do this stupid craft anyway?
I’ve had to un-weave multiple inches of fabric, which is second only to unquilting in terms of soul-sucking tedium. These are hours of my life that I am never going to have back again.
I finally left the loom but even the supposedly super-simple fabric yoyos are tormenting me, refusing to be either super or simple.
If purgatory is the place one goes to expiate sins, before being allowed into heaven, I have to wonder what my sins have been?
Not sloth—I mean I’m trying hard, I’m just not succeeding. Not wrath—although I admit to feeling pretty piqued about the unweaving. Not any of those other naughty things but . . .
I think it must be hubris, over-weaning pride, that’s always gotten me in trouble in my making of things. I start to feel a little cocky, a little sure of myself, and the craft goddesses feel the need to give me a smackdown; they remind me that I am a striver, not an expert in these things.
Okay, craft goddesses, are you listening? I get the message! I am chastened! I repent. Now, can I get back to domestic paradise? Please?
Do you have days when nothing goes right? What do you suppose neurosurgeons do on those days?!