I’m not normally the kind of person who cares much about looking like a geek, because I’m so used to it and refuse to acknowledge the stares and whispers.
I was always odd and dorky as far back as I can remember, but this was more pronounced after I became a newspaper reporter and regularly did weird things, like knock on stranger’s doors late at night to ask them if they knew their neighbor was a serial killer.
Or run clumsily after public officials who dash out of meetings trying to avoid your questions about that missing money. (Yes I actually did this. And, yes, I run like a girl.)
Once you become accustomed to looking like one of the Marx Brothers or maybe bumbling Inspector Clouseau, you have lost all sense of shame, especially after you’ve had cancer and been forced to expose your naked flesh to any number of strangers wearing scrubs and white coats. As if that were a normal thing to do.
However, I will admit that I was embarrassed last night, when I sat at the dive bar that my daughter, Curly Girl, runs with my dopey little sewing box and a needle and thread.
Now, I really don’t recommend this for a number of reasons. First of all, dive bars are dark, which I assume is so the drunks don’t have to focus very hard.
And, yes, there are a lot of drunks, but they’re mostly benign and seem to enjoy congregating in herds. After all, no one in a dive bar is going to hand out A.A. literature or point out that you’ve been soused for the last five days in a row, unless you’re so far gone that the bartender won’t serve you anymore.
Anyway, it’s doggone hard to sew in a dark dive bar, especially if you’re old like me and have trouble threading needles, even in bright light.
But I was there because I love my daughter, who was tending bar last night. See, I recently bought her a knitted handbag in a thrift shop in San Luis Obispo. I knew she’d like it,, and it instantly became her favorite.
But,, tragically, the shoulder strap on the bag started ripping on one side. Now, anyone who knew how to sew even a single stitch could repair it in minutes.
But — it breaks my heart to say this (in fact I might have to write a song about it) — I tried to give my young adult children basic sewing lessons, and they blew me off every time.
Sorry, Mom, I have to wash my hair. Walk the dog. Learn to make pumpkin bread. Sweep the driveway. Ride my bike to Australia.
Some of you may have experienced the exquisite pain of this type of rejection, and later shaken your heads in disbelief when aforementioned young person mentioned throwing away a shirt because a button fell off the collar.
Yes, yes, the very same gesture that young people use on you when you can’t figure out how to do something on your phone that they allege is absurdly simple, like how to make Siri talk in Klingon. (OK, I don’t actually think you can make her talk in Klingon, but she should, right?)
Anyway, I’ll bet money that many of you do know how to sew, since generations of us were taught this simple skill. Even if all you can do is mend a tear in your jeans, it was worth the five minutes to learn that, right?
Although I guess that’s a lost art entirely, like the lost wax technique, considering the fashion today is to have as many rips and tears in your jeans as possible, with only one or two threads left to actually keep them attached to your torso.
Anyway, I told Curly Girl I’d mend her purse, but I kept forgetting. So I finally just took the dorky old lady sewing box over to the dive bar, plunked it on the counter next to the glasses full of cheap whiskey and went to work. (I drank a soda because it was hard enough to sew in the dark, I didn’t need to get wasted to boot.)
If anyone had anything snide to say about this, they kept it to themselves. The couple sitting next to me said it wasn’t all that weird, because they’d been to an expensive show in Vegas where the guy sitting next to them was crocheting the entire time.
I bet he was trying to quit smoking. Knitting helped me.
Anyway, this has just reinforced my desire to teach the offspring how to sew a simple stitch. Then maybe they’ll teach me how to turn on my phone’s flashlight.
Special note: Speaking of dive bars, you can stop by and meet me or get your copy of my book signed (or buy one) at Curly Girl’s bar. I’ll be there on Monday, Sept. 30, starting at noon until I get bored. You don’t have to buy a drink. Poor Richards (the bar, not the almanac) 6412 Stearns St., East Long Beach, just off the 405. Yes, Curly Girl will be there too. Don’t mess with her, though. She doesn’t take any guff.
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