I am down in the SF Bay area, attending the Pacific International Quilt Festival. I am cruising the show with my friend Pat D., and we have had an exhilarating day viewing quilts that we will never make and fondling all of the fabric we long to bring home and shove into our all-too-crowded stashes.
By 4:00, we are giddy with Quilt Overload. Still, we persevere. We admire amazing technique and gorgeous designs, and always look to see the quilt's descriptive card so we know just who to admire and envy as we ogle her (usually her) quilt.
We are standing in front of a lovely, colorful quilt. I glance over at the placard and notice that the quilter's last name is "Dippinlips." I am pondering the fate of either surviving on an elementary school playground with that last name OR loving some fellow enough to take on that last name, and say to Pat, "Her last name is Dippinlips!"
Pat looks more closely at the card. "And her first name is 'Snickle!'" We look at each other as we say, in unison, "Snickle Dippinlips?"
We fall about laughing. Trying to catch her breath, Pat looks more closely at the card. "Wait," she says, "that's the name of the QUILT. Her name is Claire Fairless."
I'm sure Claire Fairless is a lovely person -- undoubtedly quite talented, too -- but somehow we liked her better when we thought she was Snickle Dippinlips. We stagger off down the aisle, giggling helplessly, and entertain ourselves for the next hour by saying things like "Meet my good friend Snickle!" and "How lovely you look, Mrs. Dippinlips!"
Quilt shows: not for the faint-hearted.