Archive for February, 2009
I have always been tall. Aside from looking over people’s heads in a crowd and getting things off the top shelf, it hasn’t been all that amusing. I can see the dirt on the top of the fridge, I have to buy TALL clothes or my ankles and wrists stick out, and it’s a long way down to tie my shoes. When I lean alluringly against a door jam I look much like an ironing board propped up in the same position.
By now I’ve become used to me, but there are times when I’d prefer to be petitte. I’d trade the ability to heave 40 pounds of luggage into the overhead bin for a few extra inches of legroom, for example. Other then that, I’m pretty happy being tall.
Still, every once in a while I want to feel petite. So I pick the tall table at the fast food joint. It makes me feel short because I have to climb up onto the chair and my feet don’t touch the floor. I can swing them if I want and not touch anything at all.
The problem is I can’t reach my food. In order to get up into the chair I have to drag it away from the table. Once in the chair with no hope of using the floor for leverage, I can’t scoot myself in. How is that supposed to be done?
One remedy is to pull the table closer to me, which seriously inconveniences my fellow diners who now sit on the other side of a great abyss. They get cranky.
I have also tried rocking my chair back and forth in an attempt to “walk” the chair legs closer to the table. Getting just the right tilt to the chair without falling over is harder than you might think.
I have attempted to jump the chair over, maneuvering it as if it were a pogo-stick. Each hand firmly under the seat of the chair, it’s kind of a bouncing / lurching movement.
The thing that seems to work most efficiently is to ask my companions push in my chair for me, but then how do they seat themselves? I’d have to give up my properly positioned chair to help them. Then they’d have to help me again. It would be a vicious circle.
Seriously, how are you supposed to use these chairs! Does the wait staff tuck you in to the table? Are you supposed to plant your feet under the table and then pull the chair seat toward the small of your back and shimmy up backwards? Maybe there is a small crane by each table that I have never noticed that just lowers your and your rear onto the seat. Are they only for extremely tall people that can sit AND reach the floor?
I’m serious. I need more information.
This is embarrassing. I have this new project, FindAQuiltTeacher.com. Great idea: teacher information is all in one place, one format, and easily accessible by program chairs and shop owners. One slight problem. I’m not listed yet. People have started to notice. I know. I SAID it was embarrassing.
So I’m filling out the forms to list myself, odd as that may be, and and I get to the part about the testimonials. Teachers get to include these, because it’s one thing to put yourself out there as an expert in Underwater Fusing, for example, but if somebody actually filled out an evaluation form after surviving your workshop and said you were top drawer, or sent you an email chock full of nice things about your fusing or your teaching, well that’s different. It adds legitimacy.
So far, I’m illegitimate. I know for sure that I have saved every email in which the writers have said kind things about my teaching ability, my matching socks, or the lack of food particles between my teeth. Where I have saved them, however, is a mystery.
I can’t find copies of my teaching evaluations either, even though I know I’ve saved those all the way back to 1983. I know I’m forbidden to read them until 6 months have passed. (I’m too thin skinned to read them right away. If I don’t get 100% perfect marks top to bottom I am depressed for days.) I know I saved them. I just can’t remember where. I’ve gone through the office, torn apart the basement, looked under the (shudder, flinch) cutting table in my studio. I am at a loss.
So, and this is truly embarrassing, I need your help. If you have taken a workshop or attended a lecture of mine and you had something positive to say about the experience (you stayed awake almost all the way through), and you were kind enough to write and tell me, would you mind doing it again? This is only if you would let me quote you. I’ll need your name, city and state, and where you might have run into me—guild, conference, the bottom of that hill over by the mall when I jammed on my breaks.
Please email me, rather than post to the blog. AmiSimms@aol.com
Again, I apologize for the fishing expedition. I am grateful for your assistance.
Thank you! I appreciate all the kind words. I feel as if I have attended my own wake!~~ Ami :)
I am tired of snow, and wind, and being cold. I am tired of gray skies, and slush, and cold feet. I am tired of the gloom of winter and I am ready for spring. I’m going to dye my underpants!
I try to do this every spring because it makes me happy. It’s fun to dye them, and it’s just as much fun to wear them. I smile every time I put them on.
The first day of spring is March 20th. That’s the day.
This year I’m going to do what I’ve been threatening to do for years — I’m going to offer to dye YOUR underwear too.
I don’t have any siblings, but I am part of the Sisterhood of Quilters and I want to spread the smiles around. (Nobody has to know you’re wearing hand-dyed panties unless you tell them; it will be our little secret.)
Interested? Click here:
OK, that’s not quite right. Meet me in the CITY of Lake Orion, Michigan. Way too cold for anything IN the water. More specifically at King’s Court in the Olde World Canterbury Village shopping center any time between 10 and 5 today. This is the last day “Alzheimer’s: Forgetting Piece by Piece” will be on exhibit there. If you’re Map-Questing, that’s 2369 Joslyn Road. For more information call the Village Quilt Shoppe at (248) 391-5727.
And even if you’re not going, read the article about the exhibit (and me) that appeared on the FRONT PAGE of the Oakland Press this week. I believe that’s our first FRONT PAGE.
For those of you heading over to the Mid-Atlantic Quilt Festival in Hampton, Virginia please join me for “Quilting & Caring: The Alzheimer’s Art Quilt Initiative” on Saturday night at 6pm. It is a FREE lecture. I know many of you are involved with the AAQI and for that I owe you a big hug. Please come by and collect.
Mom hasn’t blogged for a bit, and she’s sorry. Not sorry enough to wander over to the computer, but “sorry.” I’m not because that means I get to hoist my furry carcass up on her chair and blog instead.
Wait until she has to pick dog hair off her seat, THEN she’ll be sorry.
Mom has been working full tilt on the FindAQuiltTeacher.com web site. She came up with this great idea to get teachers’ information to people who hire them all in one place, in one format. And, big surprise, people are interested. So she’s making web pages and things called Teacher Fact Sheets. Big deal. I am still needy.
Mom likes to multi-task. Personally, I just can’t wrap my head around it. Dogs are single taskers. Accept pets. Stop. Fetch ball. Stop. Chew ball. Stop. Return ball. Stop. Accept more pets. Stop. I don’t care to be fed while being petted; I might choke on something. If you throw TWO things for me to fetch at the same time I get confused. I know my limitations and I’m OK with them.
Mom accidentally dropped a lone kibble into my water dish the other day and I felt compelled to eat it. Trouble was I had to get to it first which involved much drinking. By time I snagged the stupid thing I was so full of water I sloshed when I walked. Eating and drinking at the same time: NOT a good idea.
Today I personally witnessed Mom triple-tasking and it was ugly. I had a bath. Actually, as I am very well-behaved, I have showers. I have shared before that during a “bath” I am imprisoned behind the impenetrable plastic curtain with no way of escape and that Mom is in there with me.
Let me stress that Mom removes all of her clothing for this irritating ritual and it is pretty pasty white in there. I try not to look. I don’t much care for the partially hairless varieties of my own species. Looking at that much furless anything is almost more than my stomach can handle. I also keep my head down hoping that by doing so I render myself invisible so that the stream of water will not be able to see me and douse it’s intended victim. So far that hasn’t worked.
Mom has also run out of dog shampoo. Bath & Bodyworks Shower Gel (Cucumber Melon or Green Clover and Aloe) previously only went on my head. Today it went eveyrwhere. And Jennie, dear human sister, remember that luffa thing you left in the shower last time you were home? I’d let it be. It has seen my nether-regions, if you catch my drift. You may want to buy a new one. But I digress.
In addition to my bath and Mom’s bath, we had a third activity this morning. Mom shaved her legs. Both of them. She mentioned that she was delighted she had enough time to “do both.” (Whatever that means.)
As my job when Mom bathes is to lean against her and patiently wait until the impenetrable plastic curtain is moved to reveal the rest of our bathroom, this new shower activity kept me from doing this. It also included yet another foul smelling gel which, due to our proximity in the porcelain prison, was unavoidable. And it didn’t merely suds, it FOAMED. Major ick.
I steadfastly maintained my leaning position, which I thought would make Mom happy, but it did not. It merely caused her to flip around and face the other way for the second leg, forcing remnants of the “used” leg foam to touch my fur. I put up with a lot for this woman.
Once we were sufficiently rinsed and released into the bathroom at large I was forced to endure yet another ordeal: blow drying. The leg thing set Mom back a few minutes so she set the dryer to HIGH. Still the massage felt nice and she probably did that to make me forget I was so odoriferously inconvenienced.
I have now licked myself all over in an attempt to return my rightful dog stink to all of my fur. Several more licking sessions and I shall be back to normal in about a month.
Until then, I remain, embarassinlgy yours,
Mom’s ignoring me. Something about some dumb web page rolling out. FindAQuiltTeacher.com. Who cares. If it was FindAYummyTreat.com I’d be interested. But it isn’t. So I’m not.
I’m not supposed to be on the couch, unless I’m invited up. I wasn’t. But I am anyway. I’m moping.
When Mom leaves on a teaching trip, first I retrieve her socks out of the suitcase and bring them to her. Very helpful; slightly damp. Then I mope. She tells me to be a good dog and leaves anyway.
Dad and I mope together.
Mom says the new web site will help teachers and shops and quilt guilds get together better. Something about everything in once place, printing off information for a 3-ring binder. Don’t my toes look nice? Mom trims my toe hairs a lot. And my nails. And she brushes me real good. Except when she’s working on dumb web pages. She’s still typing. Who needs quilt teachers anyway?! I think they should all stay home with their dogs.
I bark in my sleep. You can do it; it’s fun. Close your jowls really tight and bark in a high pitch yelp. See your cheeks puff out. Sounds like a helium bark. I sometimes run when I sleep. Mom says my paws twitch. Mom jiggles me to wake me up if I do that at night ’cause it wakes up Dad.
Mom’s still typing. She says lots of teachers are starting to sign up to be on the page and she has to get the part ready for the quilt guilds and shops to join too. She says that will be tomorrow. Big deal. I just fetched her glove. She wasn’t impressed. She couldn’t type if she wore the glove. Sigh. Mope.
I usually lay at Mom’s feet under her desk. If I roll just right I can unplug her keyboard and then