Land Ho! It’s October 12!

Um.  No, that is not a gangsta instruction for a woman flying a hang-glider.

Although it could be.

I don’t know why but even though it’s been going around for a while, this card just gives me the giggles.

Arrr…

 

Avast, ye landlubbering scum buckets!  It be the best holiday of the year!

September 19.

Arrrrr.

Charity Begins At Home… Sort Of.

So Angie A. has decided to do this big huge ridiculously awesome project.  No really, ridiculously awesome.  She's making 1000 (that's one thousand) dresses for Little Dresses For Africa.

I'm pretty sure she does this stuff just to make me look bad.

See, here's the thing:  Last week I downloaded a free printable pattern for a cute little racerback knit dress.  The entire purpose of this pattern's very existence is to provide cute little racerback knit dresses for little girls in need in Africa (and elsewhere).

So of course, I made three.   For my own children.  Yep.  My own children. 

 

 

Really.

I traced out two sizes (having two sizes of Monkeys).  They are insanely easy to make.  Even I managed to do one in about an hour (and that included raising the armscyes on both patterns I cut out because they were gapping a bit at the sides and "showing our business" as TLo says).

In the meantime, I'm scoping out simpler pillowcase dress methods.  This summer the Evil Monkeys are going to try their hand at sewing a dress each and if that goes well, we'll try a dress each for donation.

I hope the little girls in Africa aren't holding their breaths on that one.  Because it could be a looooong wait.

Dude… So What WAS Up With The Boots On Your Feet?

 

I guess we’ll never know.

 

(August 5, 1964 – May 4, 2012)

Stabbed In The Back Seam.

So remember my new French friend?  And how I was so excited to meet her?  And my big plans to corrupt her?  And how she was going to help me fit my clothes better and stuff?

Yeah.  Know what?  She is not my friend.  Oh, no.  She is not.

Because, really.  She insisted on messing up my intentions to corrupt her into gaining a size or four.  She had an annoying tendency to collapse in a faint at the slightest bump or knock.  She absolutely refused to be my height and seemed to enjoy towering over me.  And she would persist with Gallic perversity in having an upper chest measurement that was 3" wider than my own.  Three inches, people.  And she's a size 4.

(insert much cursing and maligning of the French here)

Most of it I was willing to overlook or accept.  All I asked was that she meet me halfway, that she compromise just a little.  But I just could not convince her to have a smaller upper chest.  I begged.  I pleaded.  She would not listen.  So after many days fraught with tears of anger and a deep sense of betrayal, I finally succumbed to the inevitable. I dumped her. 

Au revoir, bi-atch.

Distraught and dismayed, I searched for solace. And impulsively reattached my affections on my new best friend.  

She was on sale.

At first I was a little nervous about her.  Would she be sturdy enough to not fall over every time I walked past her?  How would she take to corruption?  Was she short?  And most importantly, what size was her upper chest?

Because that's the question you always want to know about your new best friend.  Right?

Well, I can tell you: she's perfect.  She is sturdy enough to hold her own in a fight to the death with things like denim and linen.  She corrupts really well with a little padding.  With a simple adjustment, her shoulders are at the same height as my shoulders.  And best of all, her upper chest is a nice dainty 33".  She's my soul mate.

Because check it out!  I totally padded her out under my custom-fit sloper and voilà!  She's just. like. me.

Unfortunately. 

It's like a sweet potato with a neck.

There is a possible chance that I may just hate my new best friend a tiny little bit.  We may have to be frenemies.

Here’s What Happens When I Can’t Be Bothered To Fix The Camera

…or in other words, I don’t have any photos of what I’ve been working on.

Point A)  I believe that the introduction and wide-spread adoption of ready-made, standardized-fit clothing has altered our attitudes towards clothing.  We now feel the need to change our bodies to fit our clothes rather than change our clothes to fit our bodies. Obviously, this isn’t a revolutionary thought.  For example there’s that touted anecdotal statistic that’s been flying around for years about how many women say they want to have plastic surgery so their clothes will fit better.  It’s possibly not true but still… I think there’s a point to that anecdote.

Point B) I notice how well or poorly people's clothes fit.  I notice it at the grocery store.  I notice it at work.  I notice it when I'm watching TV.  Good fit.  Poor fit… mostly poor fit.  You do that too, right? I'm guessing many of you do.  I think those of us who spend a significant part of our sewing time trying to achieve good fit start to notice when others' clothes don’t fit.  Even if it's on TV or in the movies or whatnot.

I’ve been mulling over point A and point B for a long time.  Many of you have been too.  Here's what I've noticed: when my clothes are custom fit and fit well (as opposed to the many many examples of custom fit clothing that I own which do not fit well), someone invariably comments on how "good" I look.   Trust me.  I don't look good.  But I do look like my clothes fit.  And I always assumed  that I look “good” because my well-fitting clothes are flattering in some way.

But here's the thing: are we in fact just unconsciously assuming that a person in well-fitting clothes must look good because they fit their clothes?

What I mean is, ready-to-wear clothes are not designed to fit my body.   They're just not.  They are designed to fit someone who has the "ideal" body.  So if we see a person in clothes that fit them properly, are we subconsciously assuming for a moment that they must have an ideal body to be able to fit into those clothes in the first place?  Obviously that assumption won’t last past an actual assessment of the person’s figure, but as a first impression…?

Right?

Yeah?

Uh….?

Thesis: Are we conditioned through the almost exclusive purchase of ready-to-wear clothing to assume that if a person’s clothes fit, they must have the “ideal” figure to fit into them? 

Maybe we do.  Maybe we don't.  I don't know.

Discuss.

Now You Can Play Along At Home!

The Husband has suddenly out of the blue decided to become a US citizen.  This means, should he be granted citizenship, that he can’t be deported.  And that he can vote.  This also means that we now get to spend vast quantities of time and money on yet another round of Bureaucratic Bingo.  It's super fun.  I'll give you an example.  Here's how you play:

1) The Husband was required, when he applied for and was granted status as a Resident Alien, to provide his fingerprints. 

2) These fingerprints are embedded in the "green card" he is required to carry with him at all times.

3) Homeland Security, in processing his application for citizenship, requires a set of fingerprints.  They also require a copy of his green card.  (The one with the fingerprints on it.  'Member that one?)

4)  We had to drive two hours to Ft Worth for him to have his fingerprints taken by Homeland Security.  This process took 6.3 minutes.  Literally.   I timed it.  With a timer.  Those Homeland Security people were both friendly and efficient.  The bastards. 

5) Then we had to drive two hours back home.  This process cost us $168.  Plus $80 in gas.  Plus $25 for lunch.  For some fingerprints they already had on file.

Bingo!!  What did we win?

If, at the end, the answer is not "The right to vote and not be summarily deported" I'm going to be really irritated.  We haven't even gotten to The Taking Of The Test part or the fact that The Husband forgot one item in his application packet and when he immediately called to rectify the problem they informed him that they might allow him to continue with the process.  Or they might deny his application.  They can't say.  It's up to the individual processor.  That one cost us $780.

Bureaucratic Bingo is the dog people.  You should all play!

(I was going to say, "it's the bomb" but then it occurred to me that I probably shouldn't write a post with both "Homeland Security" and "the bomb" in it. 

Uh.  Son of a—!!!)

And yes, I'm pretty sure that when they say "Resident Alien", in The Husband's case they mean an actual extraterrestrial.   It’s the only explanation.

XXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX XX

While I totally support the right of people and corporations to maintain rights over their property (intellectual or otherwise), I don’t really think the average person should be punished to maintain it.

Today I was going to show you my favorite dresses from last week’s episode of Downton Abbey.

Nice, huh?

Does it really harm the makers of this show when I post a photo praising their lovely work?  Apparently it does.

Think SOPA and PIPA won’t affect you?  It probably will.

In Which I Am Crabby. And Snarky. And Not Very Funny.

I was going to make a post about sewing.  Honest. 

I made a new minky fleece jacket for TLo.  It's Ottobre 4-2008 #38.  It's cute.  But I forgot to take pictures. 

I finished (mostly) re-padding my new french friend.  I didn't forget to take pictures.  No way am I taking pictures.  Of what is, essentially, me naked.  If I was purple.  And didn't have arms... or legs... or a head.  You don't need to see that.  Trust me.

I started fitting a new tunic from Ottobre (5-2010 #6).  But then I realized that I am a freak of nature.  And apparently can't be fitted.  So I got irritated.  And I don't have pictures.

 

 

Random funny things:

"Put a bird on it and call it art."

 

Fine.  That's the only random funny thing I can think of right now.

But it's funny.

 

Is it December yet?  I could use a Christmas vacation.

E≠MC²

 

You know what I love about neutrinos?

No, not that they defy the laws of physics as we currently define them.  No, not that they are so super-fast that we question their very existence.  No, not even that this existence will allow us to see into the center of the galaxy.

Psshhht.  Whatever.

I like them because they make this pretty pattern.

Photograph: Cern/Science Photo Library

I am all about the pretty patterns.

Since Angie A. Beat Me To It…

…and already snagged AC/DC, I’m going with “Shake Rattle And Roll”.  I always did have sort of a soft spot for that psychotic pedophile anyway.  No wait.  That was Jerry Lee Lewis. 

I love Bill Haley.

This is an awesome clip, apparently from a Mexican movie.  Check out the clothes, Daddy-O!

 

Last night we had a 5.6 earthquake, apparently centered directly between me and Angie A.    The house was a-rockin’ people. (Oooo, could have gone with Stevie Ray Vaughn on that one too…) 

Angie agrees that it was probably caused by my blasphemously trash-talking Daniel Craig earlier that evening.

Fine.  She hasn’t agreed with me on that yet.  But I’m confident she will.

Just in case, I take back all the mean things I said about Daniel Craig and I promise to never, ever think bad thoughts about him again.

Well. 

You know. 

Some bad thoughts, of a certain sort, might slip through.  

I am not a nun, people.

An Open Letter To The World

Dear World,

I need a purse made out of comic books.

Preferably Tintin comic books.

Go forth, world.  Make it happen.

 

 

 

 

Why are you still here, world?  Shouldn’t you be making my Tintin purse happen?

Go FORTH, I say!!

UnHero.

I don’t have heroes.  I’m pretty firm on that.  Always have been.  When I was a little kid I used to get in trouble at school because I always put “none” on papers when they asked, “Who is your hero?”   And then usually proceeded to argue about why I wasn’t going to put an answer.  One teacher actually told me to just “make something up”.   (Apparently it is beyond the scope of third grade teachers to deal with extremely cynical eight-year-olds…. finally at one point I just started putting down “President Carter”, despite having not one clue of any particular action on Mr. Carter’s part that might merit this judgment.  Which is sort of ironic actually.  If forced to pick a hero today, I’d probably say “President Carter”.)

Still, heroes or no, I’m perfectly happy to acknowledge people who have had a deep, fundamental influence on my thought-processes, whether directly or indirectly:

fashion-plate (cosmetic study x) ~ 1969-1970

Richard Hamilton

24 February 1922  ~  13 September 2011

Oo… S’funny, In’t It?

The Husband found this video last week.  It’s gone slightly viral.  If you’re, y’know, from Yorkshire.

Since I’m not getting far along with fitting a custom shell to pad out my new french friend (because I’m trying to study to pass a FLIPPIN’ USELESS TEST at the end of the month)… er… I figured you could get a dose of a funny accent.

 

Yes.  People from Yorkshire are inherently funny.  Because of their accents.

 

It’s a known fact.

R.I.P.

 

It’s official.

The vintage look is dead.

 

In lieu of flowers, please send a charitable donation to a fashion victim of your choice.  Preferably, uh, me.  I like knit tops.  And whimsical shoes.  And red stuff.

I Bought A New Friend.

Her name is Fifi.  She’s French.  La. Dee. Dah.

Actually, I don’t like her much.  I mean, look at her.   She’s a size 4.

Sheesh.  Some people have all the luck.

Of course, I’ll probably like her better after a few weeks of my corruptive influence, after which she’ll end up looking Just. Like. Me.   That’s my plan anyway.  I’m all about corrupting bi-atches with hourglass figures who are a foot taller than me.  They will go from a size 4 to a size, uh, Not 4.  (You might think I’d at least be happy that I have size 4 shoulders… I’m not.  This just means the rest of me looks that much more Not 4 in comparison.)

Hmmph.  Stupid size 4 French friend and her 24” waist…

‘Course, I didn’t pay much for her.  I guess you get what you pay for in store-bought friends.

I’ll keep you updated on the ongoing corruption.  It requires quite a bit of effort from me, so y’know… it’ll be slow going.  I don’t like effort.

This Is Your Brain. This Is Your Brain On… uh… TV.

Seriously?

This made me laugh out loud at work.  Which isn't really a good thing.  Because then people want to know what I'm doing when I'm (theoretically) supposed to be working.  Because my job isn’t that funny.  Normally.

They're so annoying, wanting me to do actual work and whatnot.  Sheesh.

But this made me laugh.  Because really?  I think it's totally hilarious that a crass, mass-market-posing-as-exclusivity, "let's all pretend to be living in the Hamptons even though we really live in Indianapolis" clothing store has the nerve to claim to be offended by a crass, manipulated-and-edited-but-posing-as-real, "let's all run around like stereotypical idiots" TV show.

It's like a $500-a-night "escort" who's offended at being compared to a $10-an-hour meth ho.  I'm sorry.  You're both still prostitutes.  I think getting into the issue of "classiness" or a lack thereof is just semantics.

The best part?  This headline has been posted under "Also In The News" on BBC News for over twenty-four hours now.   Apparently, “Also In The News” is BBC code for “This Is Totally Ridiculous But We Thought You Could Use A Laugh Today… And Maybe Tomorrow Too”.

I was just telling Angie A. that watching reality TV is like binging on birthday cake: sure it's fun for a little while, but then you get all queasy and sick.  On the other hand, last night she recommended something called "Dance Moms" that really sounds too good to pass up and also last night my sister recommended something called "Family Restaurant" that, just based on my sister's impersonations of the participants, sounds like something I may have to watch.

I take it back.  It's not like birthday cake.  It's like crack.

Just Say No.

Knock, Knock, Knock-off, Moth… er… You Know The Rest.

I have Beyoncé the Giant Metal Chicken stuck in my head today.

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So check this out: “Beyoncé” is in Microsoft’s Spell Check.

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The mind boggles.

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I’m trying to think up other famous people with made-up unusual names so I can Spell Check them too.

Um…. Condoleeza Rice was the only one I could think of.  She’s in there. 

That is awesome!  Yep.  I think you’ve really made it when you can be generically Spell Checked.  (I can’t.  My life sucks.)

 

Anyway to continue with our story:  I was going to knock off this top from Modcloth.  Honest.

I figured I could use my custom-drafted knit top pattern with the smocked neckline, keep the neckline unsmocked, cut a binding the full length of the unsmocked neckline, make a nice little twisted-binding, run a pretty ribbon or tie through it and gather it up to the desired neckline length.  Easy-peasy.

And I could have done that, of course.  But I didn't.

Because I forgot that I was going to do that and I went ahead and gathered the neckline and then cut the binding strip to the finished length.  At which point I was highly tired of the whole thing and just wanted to get it over with already, so I just went with what I had.  I finished the neckline, tacked a silk tie to the front and called it skippy.

Hence, my version isn't quite so fun as the original.  And also not sleeveless.  Um.  If you didn’t notice.

On the other hand, it has a silk bow on the front.  That can't be a bad thing.  The bow looks better in person.  Trust me.

Of course, the first day I wore it to work my co-worker's immediate response was, "Oh that's cute.  And you can always change out that bow for a black one!"

Which I took to mean, "That top should have a black bow."

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However, today the garment-and-shoe combination seen above elicited (from the same coworker) a heartfelt, "Well look at that nifty outfit you have going on there!" and a ten minute conversation about where I got the jeans, so... meh.  What can you do?  I guess it's working.

I'm going with that.

Magnetic Reasoning.

Right.

Because that so is in line with what I learned in third grade science.  With a cheap set of magnets.  That positive energy attracts positive energy.

 

Statements like this are why upbeat, positive people irritate the crap out of me.   Repel me, if you will.

Hey wait…. maybe opposites don’t attract.  Stupid third grade science.  I just can’t rely on you for anything.

Rhymes with “Melusional”

This is the first page of my Pinterest “Clothes” board.  (I called it Clothes Pin 1… get it?  Clothes pin?  Comic genius, people.)

I just randomly pin these things over months, so there’s not really any rhyme or reason to it.   But this page looks pretty nice, right? Like, you’d think the person who pinned this stuff was pretty stylish, right?

 

Yeah.  This was last month at the Taco Fiesta Birthday Party:

You heard me. Taco Fiesta Birthday Party. It’s a thing.

 

There’s a name for that disorder where what you see in your head is totally different from what actually happens in reality, right? 

I don’t want to know what it is.  I’m just sayin’, there’s a name.