… and I panicked.
Francois is not my son, nor my cat… Francois is my seam-ripper.
I named my seam-ripper. I realized one day that I spend an awful lot of time ripping seams. It feels like every time I sit down to sew, I’m ripping seams. (I’d like to tell you all how much it sucks to rip out 1.5 length stitches out of paper-piecing, but I’m not going to.) It tends to be a very unpleasant experience, filled with cursing and occasionally stabbing myself with the seam-ripper, and squinting because it tends to be white thread against a light-colored fabric back and I don’t have the foresight to leave my reading glasses in with my sewing machine.
Since I spend so much time with my seam-ripper and wanted to make the idea even just a little more appealing, I decided to give it a name. Not a friendly name, not someone I’d want to sit down and have coffee and gossip with, ’cause that just didn’t cut the mustard. Every once in a while, even our best girlfriends make us a little (or more than a little) frustrated, so a Nancy or a Samantha, or a Michelle just didn’t seem right.
I needed a man’s name. And not just any man. Bob? No. Chuck? Not so much. No, I needed a man’s name. Something that would conjure up images of swarthy men with ripply torsos and sexy accents. Someone I would look forward to spending some time with, even if it was just to stare and drool.
Francois is halfway there. Swarthy, yes. Accent, yes. Football player shoulders and ripply abdomen, not so much. Then again, Francois is on his last legs. He doesn’t so much rip seams anymore as he does bludgeon them apart.
Thankfully, Francois was found. And it really does help. Spending time with Francois is more appealing than ripping another damn seam.