You know you do it. We all do. Whether conciously or not, we name the machines in our lives. Our mighty family wagon was deemed a ‘Charlotte’ (most commonly called Lottie), and the Honda Civic that preceeded her was most emphatically a Charlie, although the gender of Charlie remains unknown even to this day. S/he was a curious beast.
I’d say I spend most of my spare time in the company of Olive, my great hulk of an industrial straight-sewer. Anyone who has helped me move in the last six years can attest to her solidity; this baby will be hanging with the cockroaches after the End Days have come, so I’m not sure how a Singer 491 that weighs about as much (if not slightly more) than me came to have such a dainty name! Also dainty is my wee overlocker Penny, named for the lovely friend who passed her on to me. We’ve had stern words, as all good friends do, but always manage to see eye to eye in the end.
My mannequin, while not a machine also has a name; I guess this actually makes more sense since she’s vaguely humanoid. When I proudly hauled her from the backseat of my car after spying her in the back of a Silverstream Op-Shop, my mother said she reminded her of Nancy Reagan. How anything can look like someone without having a head is another topic altogether. Nancy stuck immediately.
And finally we have my special piece of forbidden treasure. It’s time Marcie here sees the light of day, even if it leads to a substantial investment of the two wheeled variety . . . you see, I’m only allowed to keep as many sewing machines as my husband is allowed bicycles. It’s a cruel system that simultaneously keeps both of us from going off the deep end, but it means Marcie here has been living in Little’s wardrobe for a couple of years, ever since she *accidentally* jumped into the car at a white elephant sale. She came with the original instruction manual, “bits” box, and fetching white leather suitcase with green velour lining for transportation purposes (although you would NOT want to lug this puppy around too far if you value the use of your back). Who could say no to that?!? Not me.
Anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion that there may be some secrets being kept under the house – secrets of the peddaled variety. We’ll see I guess.
I’d feel much better if I knew I wasn’t the only one who does this? Maybe there’s some sort of support group I can join? ‘People Who Name Their Implements After 1950s Housewives’ Anonymous, that sort of thing. We live in hope.