Hand quilting has given me an all new appreciation for the wonders my hands can perform. And the foreknowledge that I’m going to be monstrously arthritic in my golden years. Good times ahead.
I’m even staying up past my bedtime to get in a few extra stitches.
My biggest problem so far has been getting and keeping a grip on a needle that feels like it’s the diameter of a human hair. How’re you supposed to hold on to something that small? My hands get all sweaty and I’m wiping them on my shirt or pants just to get some grip. Then the pendulum swings and they’re dry as the Sahara with zero traction.
Finger cots! That’s right; the answer to my prayers.
Do you know what happens when you ask for finger cots? You get offered everything but. I do not want a thimble, be it plastic, metal or leather. I don’t want those stick on polka dot thingies. My fingers don’t need pasties, thank you very much. I know what I want, but it seems the vast majority of folks have no clue what I’m talking about as I tended to get a lot of head cocking…think cocker spaniel.
And that got me thinking…where did finger cots originate? Then it hit me.
They’re Smurf rubbers.
How else do you explain one head honcho with seemingly hundreds of lookalikes milling about who all refer to the leader as ‘Papa’.
Have you ever even seen Mama Smurf? Nuh-uh. She’d had her fill of the amorous Papa Smurf and his unwillingness to keep his necessary covered and beat feet for parts unknown. Although, I suppose all that amore could explain why they all seemed so damned happy and fa-la-la-la-la-la-ing all the time.
Know where I finally found them? The cots, not the Smurfs.
In the first aid aisle of, wait for it…