My Wife is Sew Happy
My wife just bought another sewing machine. That makes six. We now have more sewing machines than we have pets (4), bathrooms (3), cars (2), lawn mowers (1) and velvet Elvis paintings (0).
Not that I’m keeping inventory of her electric stitchers—happy wife, happy life, I get that—but six? Synchronize them just right and she could make a new toga for the Statue of Liberty in about a day-and-a-half. Oh, I’m sure they each have their own purpose. One’s probably for general clothing repairs, one for making handbags for her Etsy site, one for parts, and two for, oh, I don’t know, stereo stitching.
I’ll be the first to tell you I know precious little about sewing machines (correction: she’ll be the first to tell you) except that when Lovey is stitching fabric together she’s in her happy place. That really is all that matters. But as much as I try to not feel this way, the truth is I’m jealous. I just don’t think a wife should have more sewing machines than her husband has recliners, fishing poles or boats, all of which I have in short supply.
I must hand it to her, her new apparatus really is a work of art. It’s gotta be the Maserati of sewing machines. When she’s not here, I’ve been going into her sewing room and admiring it. It’s attached to a ten-foot-long table that fills up an entire wall in her sewing sanctuary. Made specifically for quilting, the beast she calls a “long arm” has a racing-style steering wheel, touch-screen controls, lubricated chassis, integrated USB port, on-board diagnostics, and cruise control (no joke). I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s powered by a small nuclear reactor and has a built-in coffee maker somewhere. It almost makes me want to learn how to stitch together a cover for the boat I don’t have.
What I like the most about it is a feature I don’t even think she’s aware of yet. The Maserati is attached to a ten-foot table that’s perfect for some of my workshop tools. When the machine isn’t being used to make 200-foot togas, I can convert it to a workbench lickety-split. It’s the perfect sharing machine for husband and wife. It satisfies customers’ needs I’ll bet the manufacturer hadn’t even thought about. I can mount my grinder on the far side, right up against the thingy that does the sewing, my vise can go on the near end and my chop saw in the middle. All mounted temporarily, of course, for easy disassembly when quilting is anticipated. I’ll even teach her how to dismantle them so converting it back to a sewing station won’t slow her down if I’m not home. She’s gonna love that sharing feature most of all, I think, because it’s win-win. Besides, she’ll agree there’s no room in a marriage for jealousy.
I’m serious about sewing new duds for Lady Liberty now that we have the capacity and infrastructure. She’s been wearing that same old rag for almost 250 years. In fact, I can see a lucrative government contract landing in our lap. But why stop at just one replacement toga? We’ll make one for each season and give the gal some style at long last. A fresh daisy pattern for spring, a light chiffon for those sultry summer nights in Manhattan, something flannel for fall in case of early frosts, and for winter, some fleece, red plaid of course. I see a whole new market opening up. We’ll be the world’s first outdoor statuary clothier. This is going to explode. Should the Lady Liberty test go as expected, a grant application will be submitted to sew hats and scarves for the Presidents at Mount Rushmore. After that, we’ll franchise.
I’ve got this all figured out. Synchronizing the five machines to turn out national monument attire should be easy. All I need to do is connect the foot pedals of each unit to one master lever so that when you push it down, they all run simultaneously. That would require one steel rod long enough to spot-weld all five foot pedals together, some lubricated bushings for smooth operation, and one large steel plate to weld onto the terminal end of the rod, which will be the master pedal. All she will have to do is push the master with her foot and all five machines stitch away. I’ll even go to the auto parts store and pick up one of those chrome gas-pedal footprints and weld it onto the master pedal to give it some class. I bet she’ll like that. I may as well pick up some flame decals to dress up each unit. Do you think some small fuzzy dice for the new Maserati would be over the top?
I think this is going to all work out quite nicely. I even may have to put phlebotomy aside for a while to keep the grease fittings lubricated on our serial stitchers. I suppose I’ll also be spending a good bit of time standing on a chair while Lovey pins patterns on me for the 200-foot togas and hats for presidential heads of stone as big around as small planets.
Just between you and me, I know for certain I’ll never get permission to mount my workshop tools on her long arm. Once I lay the plan out there for her, though, the true genius of my strategy starts paying dividends. So, I’m just letting you know in advance if there’s a lull in new posts for this blog in the near future, you’ll know why. I’ll be out in one of my five new boats, each with built-in recliners, testing out one of my five new fishing poles. Meanwhile, Lovey will be making quilts, not togas, on her new Maserati, upon which all shop tools will be permanently banned.
I told you I’ve got this all figured out.
Take care, my friend,