am destined to be without a sewing machine on my ex-pat adventure. I have killed another one. You will remember that I blew up the first one that I sent over with all of my other stuff on the shipping container. One day, I forgot to plug it into the transformer before plugging it into the adapter before plugging it into the wall. Apparently that was just one too many electrical gizmos for my brain to remember that morning. TRANSFORMER, ADAPTER, WALL. I bypassed transformer altogether. KABOOM!
Any sane person would have then gone out to the local Swiss sewing machine store and bought a Swiss machine with a Swiss plug and Swiss innards and called it a day. That would be what any filthy rich, sane person would do. Being neither filthy rich nor entirely sane, I opted to try and save Mr. Big a couple of thousand dollars by waiting and just buying a new machine in the US the next time we went back, just because I am a nice, thrifty person like that. Ahem.
The mayhem that is the holidays kept me from using my new machine, but a few weeks ago things finally slowed down and I trotted out the new machine in all its’ splendiferousness to reupholster a leather chair cushion. I was OH SO CAREFUL to get all my electrical ducks in a row. Transformer, adapter, wall. Check. Begin sewing.
ME: Mr. Big, can you come here for a minute? There’s something wrong with this machine.
MR. BIG: Huh?
ME: Listen. It doesn’t sound right.
MR. BIG: (after listening for about 8 nanoseconds) It sounds fine to me.
ME: No, really. I’ve been sewing for 30 years and I’m telling you, it sounds funny.
MR. BIG: You’re just paranoid because you blew up the last one. It sounds--
(Machine dies as he is speaking.)
MR. BIG: %#&^!!!! @&^*(%#@!!!!! You have done it again!!!
ME: WAAAH! I want my mother!!!!
Y’all! It was so not my fault! It turns out it was HIS stupid transformer that screwed up my beautiful new toy. Ergo, I made him carry the broken, dead carcass all the way back across the ocean because he is under the misguided impression that the store where we bought it in the US is going to give him a new one. Really? I was just going to put it in the bottom of the closet with the other one as part of my new collection: THINGS I HAVE RUINED IN SWITZERLAND THAT I CAN’T AFFORD TO REPLACE.
I have to tell you, I did try to get it fixed in Switzerland at the Husqvarna dealer. That didn’t go so well. First of all, I had to study all morning to find out how to say “transformer”, “slow, painful death” and “it was not my fault” in French before I could go to the store and make myself understood.
It is really hard for me to speak French when I have a crazy husband yelling in my ear. TELL HER ABOUT THE ELECTRICITY ISSUE! ASK HER IF SHE CAN FIX IT! ASK HER HOW MUCH MONEY IT WILL COST! ASK HER IF SHE HAS A SCREWDRIVER AND I WILL SHOW HER THE PART TO ORDER! Wait. Screwdriver? I don’t know the word for screwdriver, AND WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT UP FOR ONE MINUTE so I can speak to this woman?
It was not pretty. Needless to say, she called three days later and told us to come pick up our still-very-much-dead machine and never, ever darken her doorstep again.