quilting

I don't think I've mentioned this yet, but a few weeks ago, overwhelmed by the stress and misery of my employment situation (which we won't go into, though feel free to send me a big bat with the word "CLUE" on it) I took up quilting as a hobby.

See, here's where the English language fails me. When you hear that I "took up" quilting as a hobby, the average person has the vague impression that I took a class, did some research, bought some supplies, and now sit at home with a shiny sewing machine, making beautiful blankets for Red Cross babies. The reality is that when I say that I "took up" something as a hobby, what I really mean is that I went out one day and, on a whim, bought a book.

Millions of dollars and lives have been lost because someone, somewhere, "bought a book". Most of literate America is wishing Jerry Springer never picked up How to be Famous in Forty Minutes. Still others are cursing the day Keanu Reeves bought Acting for Dummies. In Palestine, weary non-terrorist citizens are throwing away their copies of Living Well in Israel. Meanwhile, somewhere in time, Lord James Pirrie, partner in Hartland and Wolff, shipbuilders of the Titanic, is kicking himself for having ever read Sexual Compensation for Dummies.

     "Chapter 3: Build a Big Penile Substitute. Tall buildings 

      are good. Big boats are better. While tall buildings can 

      be impressive and obvious, there's always the risk that 

      some wanker will build a bigger one right next to yours. 

      On the other hand, big boats aren't usually berthed side 

      by side, and all that salt water is always good for a 

      sexual reference or two." 

In my case, I picked a fairly thorough book, full of useful information, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that the real reason that I bought it was the authors' pictures on the cover: two ladies that can only be described as, well ... let's just say they look like they're both stitching on the other side of the blanket, if you get my meaning.

Of course, it's quite possible that the two women concerned are simply recipients of truly unfortunate haircuts, the likes of which you could only get in Minnesota or San Francisco. Having been lesbian for a day back in 1998, I hold more than a bit of fondness for members of my erstwhile sisterhood; however, I'll admit that I've never considered them to be, as a group, icons of domesticity. The novel idea of having lesbians author a book about quilting, that creme brulee of housekeeping, rather tickled my sense of humor.

Now that I've offended all sorts of people, I'm perfectly willing to admit that my limited concept of domesticity usually involves full skirts, Donna Reed, and a pipe-smoking Man of the House, complete with testicles in his neatly pleated pants. Needless to say, this is unnecessarily exclusive of those many lesbians out there that can whip out a seam as good as the best of them.

It was with a vague idea of apologizing for that sentiment that I bought the book. I've personally never been much of a sewer; holes have gone for weeks without being noticed, in my wardrobe. Buttons that pop off in strategic locations often stay off, with results that usually seem more embarrassing for other people than myself---

"You're missing a button," someone in my book club pointed out, one night.

I looked down to find the front of my dress gaping open, giving everybody a view of my bra that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. "I know," I said. "I tried to find ways of hiding it this morning in the mirror, but nothing really worked."

"You mean you knew about it before you left for work, and you still wore it anyway?" another asked incredulously. "Why didn't you use a safety pin?"

"It would've looked funny." Well, duh.

---but I figured, how complicated could quilting be? I ran my finger down the checklist of Things You Should Have, ("needles, gotta get; pins, gotta get; thread, gotta get; lead pencil, yay! got one!; ruler, gotta get; scissors, gotta get...") until I hit 'sewing machine.'

"I don't need a stinking sewing machine," I thought to myself. "I don't even know how to sew. Sewing machines are for sissies. And they're expensive. No sewing machine. Check."

At this point, real quilters are cringing. "No sewing machine?" they're yelling. "Are you a moron? Would you cook souffle without a see-through oven door? Would you put a drinking glass on an Ethan Allen table without using a coaster? Is your brain made of tulle?"

Screw you, real quilters. I got me a book.

There's a moral to this story, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. Four weeks later, I've only finished two patches. I won't deny that I'm starting to think longing thoughts about my mother's old Singer. There are times when I'll surreptitiously stick my wireless mouse under my foot, just to see how it feels. At this rate, I'll finish my quilt just about the time the Republicans start taking a black politician seriously. (I'm talking to you, Colin.) On the upside though, I've found sewing is a great way to relieve stress. There's just something about playing with a sharply pointed metal stick that, I don't know, just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It's therapeutic.

Sharply pointed metal stick. I should go get a book on fencing.

Dear Diary: Note. Association with the Guy is making me crass. Crasser. Remind self to stop being so vulgar. Mother would be shocked.