Ami's AfterChat NewsletterMay 1998Please Note: This newsletter was originally sent on May 25, 1998. It may not have improved with age. Information may be outdated and irrelevant, not to mention useless. It is here only for your enjoyment.
WELCOME If you are on AOL, please join me for a chat in the Quilters Chat Room. Type the keyword QUILTERS, then follow the prompts to the chat room. We begin promptly at 9 pm EST on the 4th Thursday of the month. That will be May 28th this month. We do protocol for the first 45 minutes and then have a typing frenzy free-for-all. Your quilt-related questions are always welcomed.
REWARD FOR THE GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED If I know I'm unsure where something is located, I get out the map and look. Then I write down the directions, and I do just fine. Writing directions to a restaurant you were at last week, or to a store you were at 3 days ago, however, is a little tedious, so sometimes I just wing it. I know I'm going to be in trouble when I see where I am, and can form a mental picture of the place I'm going, and then everything in between is like a television tuned to a station it doesn't get. Snow and static. I have no mental map. Nothing. Always optimistic that the picture will tune in en route, I put the car in drive and aim for the general area I think I'm supposed to go. I'm so used to this absence of a mental road map, that I don't much mind anymore. It's no longer frightening, just frustrating. It may take me a while to get some place, but I eventually do, and usually leave enough extra time so that I'm rarely ever late. I just drive around until I bump into wherever I'm going. Last week I was out running and errand and felt an urge for an Arby's roast beef sandwich before I went back to the office. I knew there was an Arby's across from a traffic light, and somewhere on Miller Road. Brimming with confidence, I just drove up Miller Road one way, didn't see it, and turned around and went the other way for a while. After two U-turns, I wasn't getting any closer. I was wondering if it was on some other road entirely (this happens, too) and was beginning to get the feeling that all the other cars were staring at me, so I pulled into a shopping center. Over in the back was an antique mall that I had seen advertised but never visited. Since fate had brought me here, I went in. There on the floor was a rounded wooden case with a little black sewing machine inside. It was a Singer, electric, with a knee stick to make it go. The price tag was marked down from $65 to $35. Now, I may be geographically challenged, but I am no idiot. I practically dove head first on the machine to shield it from the prying eyes of anyone else who had half a brain. There had to be something wrong here. I knew I was hungry, but thought it was thirst, not hunger that precipitated mirages. It was indeed a featherweight, and in pretty good condition. I even made the clerk plug it in up at the cash register to see if it worked. It did. The light went on, and thread as old as the machine went up and down in the take-up lever. It even sounded good. I didn't have any cloth with me, and opted not to take off my pants and run them under the presser foot only because we were standing at the picture window at the time. I gave the clerk my money and carried the machine back to the car cradled tightly in my arms. Then I drove straight to Arby's and found it without error. I guess the adrenaline in my system from having found this unbelievable treasure was like someone smacking the side of my internal television set . All of a sudden the picture of how to get from where I was to where I wanted to go came into crystal clear focus. Upon further inspection, I've learned that the belt needs replacing, and whomever owned before sewed with a piece of tape on the throatplate marking off both 1/2 inch and 5/8 inch seam allowances. I haven't figured out how to wind the bobbin, but I'm saving further play with the machine until after I finish the next book. That will be my reward. Meanwhile, the number on the machine is AC675430. Can anyone tell me more? This is so exciting!
SPEAKING ABOUT THAT BOOK
THAT T-SHIRT QUILT Yes, dear readers, you read right. You can have it. I don't have the time not inclination to finish it. The first one who e-mails me and pays shipping will be the proud owner of the dreaded T-shirt quilt.
SIMPLY QUILTS
HOUSE UPDATE The hot is fine, if you don't mind that it turns itself off ever so gradually as you soap up. The cold is the killer. Want less cold water? You have to turn the knob farther ON until the magic point where something shifts inside and the water gets warmer. One millimeter beyond that and you get ice water. H-2-O droplets exiting any fixture in the house, no mater how meager, results in a temperature fluctuation. Large amounts of water used elsewhere sends the pressure plummeting and the temperature out of control. We're talking tooth brushing and toilet flushing here. I shudder to think what the spirits would do were we ever to run the dish washer or the washing machine at the same time one of us were showering. Probably suck the occupant down the drain straight to Satan. The new shower knob and head sounded like a good thing. I ordered a gear shift type handle to replace the individual possessed hot and cold water knobs, and a modest nozzle without the power massage or tire cleaning attachment. It gleamed at me, shiny and free of soap scum, for it's maiden voyage. I was so excited. Finally I would get the shower of my dreams. Uninterrupted water pressure, constant temperature---I would be able to take a shower in peace, without yelps of pain or screams of surprise. I flicked the lever into the on position, and guided it over to hot. Ice cold. Here I was pointing the thing where the hot should be and after 20 minutes still no hot. The bathroom is now cold enough to set Jell-O. I tried the other direction and the water coming out of the faucet began to warm up. OK, now we're cooking. I find the perfect temperature, and pull the plunger into Shower Mode. After much gurgling, six drops dribble out of the nozzle. OK, maybe seven. Lots of noise, very little water. I've seen better water pressure in a soaker hose. Against my better judgment, I climb in anyway. I figure it's going to take a lot longer than I had planned to even get wet, let alone clean. I had better get cracking. The water droplets exiting my new nozzle arc beautifully into a perfect circle. Looks pretty, but there is absolutely no water coming out of the center of the nozzle--there aren't even any holes there! The only way I can get my belly button wet is to wait for trickle down. I could have held an empty 2 liter Pepsi bottle over my head and gotten wetter. The water arc shot out about an inch and a half before it plummeted downward, so I attempted to stand as close as possible to the nozzle. After a minute and a half my scalp was barely damp. The exiting droplets just rolled off my head and began to evaporate. Thankfully, the plumber left the old nozzle. Maybe they have to by law, like the car repair guys. I called him this morning and told him that he'd have to exorcise it and put it back in. He was almost as happy as I was. To be continued......
I GOT MUGGED This month I also had a chance to teach for the Des Moines Area Quilters Guild and for the Siouxland Samplers Quilt Guild. What fun! I so enjoyed meeting everyone. On the shuttle from one guild to the next I got a few minutes to add some fabric to my stash and to increase my daughter's collection of Beanie Babies. I'm finding that both are addicting! If you're in St. Cloud, Minnesota, look for me at the big quilt show there in June. Please introduce yourselves and let me know that you're on my newsletter list.
FAST QUILTERS
NEWS FROM UNCLE BUD "The box containing the new video card from the computer manufacturer arrived. It sat on the corner of the desk impatiently nestling and settling down deeper each day in it's new-found home of assorted papers. My monitor looked pretty good, and the pink flashes really didn't seem so terrible when I weighed my choices of possible action. When I first ordered it, I imagined that the instructions inside the box would be sort of simple, like perhaps, "Now that you have opened this box, simply remove the old video card, snap in the new one, and send the old card back. Make sure it is not the Ace of Spades, and life will be easy. Remember your card so you can identify it later. In the meantime, enjoy the new and improved wonderful contrast on your computer monitor." But, the more I thought about it, the more daunting the task became. After several days the reality of the situation became a little easier to bear, and I was able to talk about it. At breakfast one morning I cleared my throat and said in a surprisingly timid and weak voice, "Honey, it came." "What came," she replied automatically, but she didn't really care. I knew she didn't care, because after my voice returned, and after twenty minutes of describing imagined detailed instructions on how to switch video cards, she was still silent. I found more responsive ears. Hal said he would be glad to help me "RIP into the case" of my computer. Sure, what did HE have to worry about? He's got two computers at his house, so one is always expendable. I actually doubt that he believes, as I do, that computers after a while become part of the family. Mine has become very friendly to me and although it has a delicate personality at times, is amazingly close to being one of my very dear friends. I have learned just the right touch and when to tread softly. Sometimes when she's in a good mood, I can open several programs at the same time, and she will happily let me swap information from one file to another. But then there are those days, and I never know what sets her off, but just one iddy-biddy key stroke the wrong way, and she zaps shut, and won't respond to any amount of key tickling. Hal is an engineer and has a tendency to dehumanize his computers. He would think nothing of using four letter expletives to describe his computer, even while they are alive, up and running, and probably listening. I decided Hal would not be a party to this ticklish operation. I opened the box and admired the new video board. It said it was a 2 mg, and the old one is a 1 mg. Is that good? Is it too much of a good thing? There are no instructions. How will it affect her? Kerry said that if I wanted him to help me, I had better ask the manufacturer to send out some floppies for re-installing the system. He was sure that I would need them to avoid a complete crash. Gotta watch the magnetic shock too, he says, and you must be completely grounded. It doesn't take much to blow that new board to doomsday, he says. I figured that I had found two opposite kinds of willing helpers. One spreads gloom and doom, talking about fatal crashes, while the other older &l wiser one says, "No problem, lets RIP into her and fix it before breakfast." Hal likes to use the "R word" with me, as he enjoys the cringing that I do whenever he says it. It's always the loudest word in the sentence. I decided that I would do the deed alone, without any outside interference. I could go at my own pace, keep my wits about me, and complete the task in as many days at it would take. The morning went well. I had already successfully washed my face (didn't slop water on the floor), brushed my teeth (none fell out), and shaved (without blood showing up anywhere). Breakfast went smoothly. Everything stayed down where I put it, and whatever I spilled seemed to wipe up easier than a TV commercial. My nerves were calm and "Operation Board Switch" was about to become reality. The night before it was almost impossible to read the screen. The pink flashes seemed to be the final warning of impending death, as they increased in frequency and brightness. The job had to be done that morning. Waiting for a miraculous unassisted cure was no longer an option. I never noticed how many things seem to have found their ideal resting spot on top of my CPU! I removed balanced them precariously in several other places forming virtual booby traps should any other living creature venture close to my operating room. Several other things, which would be identified later, went crashing to the floor. The knurled knobs gave way easily, and in a short time the case was off and sitting in a far corner of the room with it's knurled nuts sitting safely inside it like a mother cradling her new born baby. Do you have any idea of how much empty space there is inside your CPU? You could keep sandwiches in there, if they would just provide a drawer or something. I don't know why they don't do that. They already have an electrically operated cup holder, that you put the CD's in when you don't have your hot chocolate in it. I moved like a surgeon, every move deliberate and excruciatingly beautiful and well-planned. I located the errant board hiding near another bigger one, which probably was the mothering board. I compared the sick board with its replacement, and it seemed to be a good match. The amputation went quickly and uneventfully, and the transplant went in nicely clicking soundly in place in a rather profound and confident manner. It appeared as if stitches would not be required, and closure followed swiftly. The cover went back on, and the knurled nuts knew their place too. Had a tiny bit of trouble plugging all those ridiculous wires and thinga-mo-bobs back into their correct places, and I got most of them in and right-side up too. The worst was over and I sat down for a minute until the trembling evened out a bit. All parts of me were now shaking at the same speed, so it didn't take much longer for total calmness to arrive. "How did it go?' she inquired from the foot of the stairs. "Like a piece cake", I answered, "crummy!!" Then she wanted to know if the computer worked better now, and I wished that she hadn't asked, because the moment of truth had arrived, and a multitude of unanswered questions pounded within my heart. Did they send the right board? Did I replace the one I was supposed to? Did I plug it in correctly, or backwards? Did I eat that piece of chocolate cake, or did I leave it in the computer along with several sponges, like the surgeons do? Are all the wires, cords and various plug-in things where they actually belong, or is it possible to force the wrong one in the wrong hole? Did I ground myself properly before I touched anything? I had brought up a huge piece of metal to ground myself on, and I touched it enough that I wouldn't have been surprised if it had floated up to the ceiling midway into the operation. If Fred would have been here, the guy with a metal plate in his head, we would likely have had to pry it off of his head. I fearlessly turned on the computer and it sprang to life, MOMENTARILY. There was a message containing the words "fatal error", and some other mumbo jumbo that clearly has no place in a situation like this. The message should say either "yes" you did it OK, or "no" you didn't. I am fairly certain that my efforts to repair this thing no matter how inept would really not result in my death, or the death of the computer, for that matter. I turned the power off at once, and sat there trying to remember what the darn message said. Clearly I had to call the manufacturer who sent the new board to me and tell them what the stupid machine "said" to me, but I couldn't remember. No problem. With twitching temples, and hands, I turned the monster back on. There was color, and no message, and familiar things happening. Windows 95 made its customary orchestral sounds. My spirits bounced back up from the floor and I was alive once more! But wait. The screen was larger than life. Really larger. Only 1/4 of it fit on my 17" screen. Things seemed sort of stable, so with one eye on the screen, I dialed God for help. It seems as if God forgot to send me the disks to reinstall the new card with, but not to worry, I could download them from the Internet!!! Of course the slider buttons were on the part of the screen that was way, way, out of view. I jotted down the instructions for downloading and somehow, with a combination of deft arrow moves and eloquent swearing, while peering into an enlarged portion of a small part of every screen, I was actually able to get onto the Internet and find the URL that I needed. Wonder of wonders, I downloaded two disks crammed full of bits & bytes and probably some kibbles too. In a more relaxed sort of hysteria I spent the better part of the next 4 hours with Dennis the Teckie who was obviously involved in some sort of competition with other teckies to see how long they could keep a customer on the phone without drink or water. I faked a phone call on the "other" line, and went to the bathroom, and grabbed a cold drink. This sort of diversionary tactic does work. There isn't a teckie alive who can accurately tell if you do, or do not, have another telephone line, or another call on it. Anyway Dennis the Menace finally helped me install the disks, and my screen returned to normal size. Did the pink go away, you ask? It's hard to tell. Don't forget I'm looking at it through extremely bloodshot eyes and sheer terror that something else may be wrong. I think the pink is gone, but the contrast isn't what it should be. Elaine says it's fine, so does Hal and Kerry. I give up!"
NEXT TIME
Thanks for reading! Ami Simms For more information about my books or my Photos-To-Fabric® transfer paper, please either send your snail mail address to me in an e-mail, or visit my web page at: http://quilt.com/amisimms or call 1-800-278-4824.
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