Inspirations: I prefer the sewing pattern. So there. September 2, 2008 19:14 1 Comment

Simplicity 1855, circa 1930s

Tonight, I played Dream Fashion. You know. You look at collections. You decide what you’d buy if money was absolutely not a factor. And, to be completely truthful — which is, of course, my nature — I was disappointed. Quite. The designers let me down. With a plop.

I did find this ensemble at Donna Karan. She has a way with luxe fabrics and details with panache. But. The fuzzy wuzzy cuffs on the sleeves are too, too Las Vegas for me. Shouldn't that glitter be stuck on a showgirl's butt? Or perhaps teetering atop her pretty make-up counter head? What was Ms. Karan thinking? Give me classic. Give me sleek. Give me the patience to learn to sew! Please, sewing goddesses. I beg you. Very politely.

But. I have rambled off-topic. So unlike me. Forgive me. Please. I'll go back to  the DK design. Right now. This minute. The jacket collar is gorgeous. Totally. So are the chiffon trailings. But this just isn’t as fabulous as Simplicity 1855. Not even close. Look at the shoulder details. Don’t stop there. Let your eyes roam. Ogle the pockets on the skirt that mirror the topper's curves. Oh my. Love it. Love it. The seam that climbs up the sleeve to the sweeping yoke. Yeeeeoooooww. The scarf that simply cannot be contained by the coat. I would make one tiny change: a slit in the skirt rather than the pleat. After all, a black stockinged leg is sexy. Very.

Now, imagine this ensemble in the wool and silk chiffon that Ms. Karan has used. Oh my oh my oh my. I’m getting goose bumps at the mere thought of it. Truly. Aren't you?

Inspirations: The dress for those high-class times August 26, 2008 17:29 1 Comment

Butterick 7085, circa 1930s

This is the dress of dreams. At least in my life. At least in my life in my small town that is rapidly being overdeveloped. But that’s another story. And it’s not a dream. Alas.
But I can daydream. I can. And in this dress, perhaps of black velvet, with a wrist corsage of bright pink peonies, I go to dinner at a sleek club, with an orchestra and a cooing chanteuse.
I channel Irene Dunne. Sophisticated. Soignee. Above it all. His Bertness channels Melvyn Douglas. Handsome. Clever. Divine in a dinner jacket.
I wear the short-sleeved version with the plunging back. It hints at the amorous while remaining so refined. So very very.
This is a glorious dream. Indeed. I think I’ll go to sleep now. Yes. I will. I'm yawning in anticipation.
Night-night.

Inspirations: Sometimes, you cannot refuse the night August 18, 2008 20:24

Vogue Special Design S-4408

This is one of those nights. A night where you say hang it all. You want to hear the blues. Jimmie Vaughan. Jonny Lang. Koko Taylor. You don’t want to stay home. You want to go out. Your house cannot contain you. You want to go to a club. You want to go to a club, and you want to look luscious. Sublime. So hot that an August night in Houston seems as frigid as a January night in Minneapolis by comparison. You want every male in the room to look as you walk by on your stuff’s arm. Admit it. Don’t lie to yourself. You have those nights. You know you do.
And this is the dress for those nights. Custom tailored. Perfect. Sexy but not indecent. The camisole touch both conceals and invites. The skirt hugs: It reveals the sway of your voluptuous hips. But the pleats at the back allow motion. You could make them a tad higher or use a fabric with stretch for more movement. You could. You know your style on the dance floor. You know your mood. Sometimes you just want to undulate in your man’s arms. Sometimes.
But. Whatever. Your dancing style isn’t important. What’s important is you. Him. Your power. In this dress, he will be in thrall. In thrall. To you. To your spell. Absolutely.
So. Slip into this. Sashay through the club. Rock in his arms. Back. Forth. Kick down all those doors. Blow out all those windows. Set yourself free. Do it. Tonight.

And the dust bunnies will dance at my command August 14, 2008 18:03 2 Comments

Simplicity magazine from Spring 1961 says this is just the thing to wear for housework. This information is still sinking in. Slowly. Ever so slowly.
I am supposed to shed my comfy yoga pants and tee-shirt for this delicious frock? Really? Simplicity says — I kid you not, it says this right here on page 167 — “dusting is a snap when well-protected in a lovely coat of Everglaze cotton. This yellow and white striped wraparound is easy to get into, lets you swirl quickly through all your many tasks.”
Ahhhh. That’s the problem. That is the problem. That’s why dust on our dresser is as thick as sand on the beach. That’s why dog hair gathers in clumps in the corners of the den. Oh my heck. I’m not wearing the proper attire. That’s why I hate housework — I’m wearing the wrong thing! Darn it. I did not know. No one told me. If only I had known. If only I had known that if I slipped into this stylish house coat, I would swirl through dusting, mopping, making the bed, doing the laundry. And it would be done in a snap of my well-manicured fingers. Yes indeedy.
I’m skeptical. I am. Ever so. This looks like more work to me. This looks as if it has to be ironed. Ironed! And perhaps even starched. Oh. My. Heck. Starched. I can already see the iron clogging. My yoga pants are looking better every minute.
Now, His Bertness might like this choice. He’d probably find this quite fetching. It’s so pretty. So fresh. And it’s easy to get into. And you know what that means. Easy to get out of. Mmmmmm. So. There are benefits, I must admit, to Simplicity 3736. Yes. Indeed. But ironing? I’m resistant. Very. In fact, I get tired just thinking about it.

Inspirations: You'll find the love you missed in this dress August 11, 2008 18:28 1 Comment

Vogue Couturier Design 2164, circa 1960s

You parted anything but cute. Be truthful. Be blunt. Don't lie to yourself. It ended ugly. With his mother’s Wedgwood Bramble Pink china in shards on his maple floor. Sure, you only broke five place settings. Sure, you replaced them all. Still, it’s not the same. They aren’t the place settings he ate on for special occasions as a child. Birthdays. Easter. Thanksgiving. Christmas. They aren’t the same plates and cups and saucers and bowls she got as a young and hopeful bride.
Still. You were the one who walked out. You were the one who refused to take his calls. Who sent his cards back marked “Return to Sender.” You were the one who tossed his calla lilies (your favorites) in the trash. All because he talked to her, his ex, at a party. Darn him. Darn him. Still. You want him. You want him now. You were so jealous. Out of control. Darn your insecurities. Darn them. Darn. Darn. Darn. He tried to get you back. For months. Months. And then . . . he didn’t.
And you. Silly you. You did not know what it was all about. You didn't. Now. Now, you do.
Will this dress work? Will this dress get him back? You want him to come to you. You don’t want to go to him. You need to know he still cares. Cares enough to walk across the lawn at a mutual friend’s wedding and say hello. Hello. I love you. I want you. I cannot take another breath without you. Without true love we just exist. Really. Truly. Come back.
Yes, this is the dress. It requests attention. It does not plead. It does not beg. It’s smart. It has class. In spades. You’ll look beautiful in it. Beautiful but haughty. Haughty but sexy. This Forquet will work. It will. It must.

Inspirations plus: What to wear when the lights go out August 4, 2008 06:50

Vogue Paris Original 1352
Sometimes, nature’s timing is perfect. Last night, for instance. A monsoon storm raged outside. Lightning ever so close outside the front windows. Ever so close outside the rear. Frenetic. Kinetic. Amazing. Absolutely. I had just put the fried chicken (hey, I was raised in Louisiana — fried was a food group, and a delicious and cherished one at that) on to drain. The roasted potatoes were in the oven. I was walking from the freezer in the garage to the kitchen, toting frozen green peas. Whap. Brrrraaaaacccckkk. Bam. The lights went out. Completely. It was black up. Black down. Black all around. I felt my way to the kitchen. His Bertness found a flashlight. I plated the chicken. He plated the roasted taters. I remembered that there were candles on the dining room table from a recent dinner party. Yes. Yes. Yes. Life is beautiful. Being a lackadaisical housekeeper pays off. At last. Dinner by candlelight. Unplanned. Exquisite. It’s true we had nothing green. No peas. No green beans. No asparagus. No salad. But we had light that flickered, that glowed topaz.
What could have made this lovely dinner better? A sophisticated hostess ensemble. Of course. Vogue Paris Original 1352, a Lanvin design suitable for Jeanne Moreau. So sixties. So gorgeous. So dramatic. (Although, truly, frying chicken in it might have been difficult. I’m sure I could carry it off. But. Still. I might cry if there was a grease splatter on the velvet.)
The electricity sparked five minutes after dinner was over. I told you: perfect timing. Could not have been better if I’d planned it all week.
The downside — alas, there is one — is this: When we went upstairs, we discovered the master bathroom floor masquerading as a wading pool and the sheetrock bulging like Peter Lorre’s eyes. The Bathroom Drama continues. Oh my heck, to quote Marie O. (I personally find the woman as annoying as a dripping faucet, but I do have a beloved friend who thinks she is the cat’s.) Drying the floor was a multi-towel task. Five, to be precise. And if we have more rain, the leak will doubtless continue through the night. The Bathroom Drama, Part 3. Oh my heck, oh my heck, oh my heck. I am not ready for it. Couldn’t I break a nail instead? Get a ladder in my nylons? Have a root canal with no lydocaine?
Oh, well. We’ll always have Paris.
And fried chicken.

Inspirations: Keep his hands to himself? No. I think not. July 31, 2008 17:22

Simplicity 1754, circa 1930s

Red shirtdresses send me. (And I need to be sent, considering the roofing drama.) One of my first grown-up dressy dresses was a red jersey shirtdress that Mam made me. I felt sophisticated when I slipped it on. So alluring. Boys loved it, even the sexy and so much older (Four years. Oh. My.) preacher’s son. Red is exciting. Red captures your attention. Red captures his attention. Think of stop signs. Think of red lights. Think of him, pausing, then focusing on you. Only you.
Those in the know insist that red is stimulating, that it makes us feel protected from fear and anxiety. (Ahhhhh. I’ll have to wear red tomorrow when I take scissors to my muslin. My heart is beating faster just thinking of it — the cutting, not the red top I may indeed wear. Now that I’ve thought of it.) And of course, we all know that red is the color of love. Think Valentines. On the other hand, we never want our bank balances to be in the red. They must be in the black. Firmly. Mmmmmm. Red is a dichotomy. And this scarlet dress not only has buttons which you know he’ll be ever so eager to undo, and the sexy skirt, (I can feel his hand, ever so slightly callused, sliding under it even as I type) it also has those sleeves. Commanding. Dramatic. Elegant. With that victorious cuff. Pointing to the sky. Yummy. This isn’t just your ordinary shirtdress. It’s special. Really. Look at me. But mind your manners. At least above the table.

Inspirations: Tasty hot pockets and not a calorie in sight July 26, 2008 09:00

Very Easy Vogue 8564
Now. I know. All you sophisticated, ever-so-skilled dressmakers who inhabit cyberspace are confused. You're very puzzled. You simply do not get this one. You don’t. It’s a Very Easy Vogue, for goodness sake, you are doubtless thinking. It’s not a detailed, haute couture suit. This is not Karl Lagerfeld or Paquin. Heck, it’s not even Diane Von Furstenberg. And it certainly isn’t a glamorous Charles James ball gown to wear while skimming across the dance floor. It’s a day dress, and a rather simple one at that. But look at those pockets. Love ‘em. Love ‘em. I do. I do. I do. There is something about a pocket. You can slip a lipstick in it. Or a driver’s license, an Andy Jackson, and leave your purse at home. You can put your hand in it. And what a comfy, secure feeling that provides. So cozy, like a night spent reading by the fire with a big mug of hot chocolate. And then there are the dolman sleeves. So unsuitable for dancing, But so cool otherwise. I feel that summer breeze even as I write. And there's the snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug sensation you get when you wear wear hubby’s old shirt. You know? The one that’s way too big. Oh, dolman sleeves, be my valentine. Yet, this dress is smart. It would class up any luncheon. You could, in a pinch, even wear it out to dinner. You could lengthen the dress — to the floor, of course — and wear it as a hostess gown. Yep, I love this pattern. Multi-purpose. Very. I — that’s right, your ears did not trick you — I will be making this one. One day. Maybe soon. Maybe this year. Yes. Maybe even this year. In 2008. You heard me. Hold me to it. You have my permission.

Inspirations: The ultimate film noir vixen dress July 16, 2008 18:31

Vogue Special Design S-4596
This is not a dress for ballroom dancing. This is not a dress for sitting on the sidelines. This is not a dress for wallflowers. This is a dress that says “look at me.” I can handle it. I’m refined. I’m tasteful. But I am as tough as a leather whip, and I can inflict the same kind of pain if you mess with me. But if you treat me nice, if you treat me with respect, I’ll purr. I’ll glow. I’ll growl. Playfully. I’ll call you baby all night long. But I won't mean it. I won't be your woman. I won't be your wife. This dress is a warning: I can get home alone, and I will. It's what I want. It's what I like. Light my cigarette, then leave me alone.

Salute the sun, but wear the right pants July 10, 2008 17:24 3 Comments

Vogue American Designer 2474, copyright 1990

So, girls and boys, I confess I was a little down today. Heck, I was downright depressed, feeling like the beneficiary of a one-way ticket to the dark side. Express. Nonstop. Cloaked in gloom and doom. Hope was a foreign language I did not speak. Woe, as the omnipresent they might say, was me.

And then I went to yoga class. Wow. The deep breathing. The stretching. The postures. Suddenly — and I do mean suddenly — I felt alive, tingly, all aglow. High even. No exaggeration. Really. I love yoga. Love it. Even though I am not especially good at it. Flexible, yes. Strong, not so much. But I shall keep striving. (My inner perfectionist rarely takes a vacation.) Breathe. Yes, deeply. Hold. Release. Wow.

Wouldn't these Perry Ellis pants be perfect for yoga? And stopping by the grocery store afterward for a loaf of bread? I think they are definitely doable for a beginner. A practical inspiration these. What do you think, you who sew? An attainable project for a novice?

Slowly, my sewing area is coming together. I think it will be ready to go this weekend. I am so excited! (I know you are, too. Sure you are. Admit it. Don't hold back.) This process has involved so much more work — and dust — than I anticipated. Much sweat. Many muscle twinges. A sneeze or two. But worth it all. Ever so. Do, I beg, share any organizational tips you might have. As long, that is, as they do not involve dusting, heavy lifting or broken glass.

Namaste.

Why I want to learn to sew: Reason #3 July 8, 2008 19:34 5 Comments

Vogue Special Design 4237, copyright 1961

Now, you might scratch your chin. You might shake your head. You might puzzle over this choice. This isn’t a detailed Schiaparelli. This isn’t an intricate slinky 1930s bias gown that makes the dancers stop midtango and stare awestruck when you enter the ballroom. This is a dress that sneaks up on you like a daydream when you’re standing in line at the grocery store, wondering why the person in front is insisting on a price check on the Smuckers. It's not on sale, dope. This dress takes you away. This dress takes you there. You’re sitting at the table, laughing, chatting, and everyone thinks “She looks lovely tonight, such an elegant cocktail dress.” And then you’re on the dance floor. You mambo to Unchain My Heart. The skirt swirls like a Ricochet. You swing to Hit the Road Jack. You are there. You are in the moment. Totally. This dress sets you free. This dress means it. This dress can keep him in a trance. Or it can go home to meet his momma. Double duty. You love it. You know you do.

Inspirations: Do I hear Laurence Harvey calling my name? June 30, 2008 17:45 5 Comments

Vogue Special Design S-4544, circa 1950s
Now, this, this is a dress for dancing. The godets — four of them, four, four, four! — will make this skirt float across the dance floor like a downy feather in a balmy wind. And what a graceful neckline — provocative but in a ladylike way — wives and girlfriends won’t be knotted with anger because it's too low. It’s very Liz, but more Father of the Bride than Butterfield 8 (which is perhaps my favorite Liz movie, but that, as the ubiquitous they says, is neither here nor there). And, of course, the fact that this exquisite frock is sleeveless will make it very cool, very comfortable on those nights when Carter doesn’t turn the AC down, despite my courteous pleas. Oh, yes, I do love this dress. I do. I see it before me, calling, beckoning, urging me onward. Sew. Stitch. Or, as the athletic shoe company says, just do it!

Do I have fear of sewing? Or is it fear of failure? Mmmmmm. What do you think?

Why I want to learn to sew: Reason #1 June 13, 2008 12:23 2 Comments

Vogue Paris Original 1051 by Schiaparelli, circa 1949

Oh, sure. I could have someone make this. I could. If I lived in the city. If I had a bank balance the size of J-Lo’s. Alas.

So. Since dressmakers are scarce in my small town. Since my apparel budget wouldn’t keep Paris Hilton in pantyhose for a week, learning to sew seems to be the answer. Not an easy one: I’ve attempted to learn sewing before, and the resulting garments were less than accomplished. Let’s see.

There was the Donna Karan bias skirt pattern, so slinky, with a nod to the 1930s. I used a lovely lilac linen. The waist was so big there was enough room for me and my buddy Elsie the cow. Needless to say, it went to the Goodwill store. Immediately. Without even one wearing. Then there was the Vogue dress, sexy, very milkmaid meets Madonna. This one was big enough for me and a Mack truck. Hello, Goodwill.

My last effort was a gorgeous 1950s McCall fishtailed number. Easy to make, teased the pattern envelope. This time, I decided to do things right. I made a muslin. It fit perfectly. It was beautiful. Mr. Gardenia was so impressed with my dressmaking skill. I excitedly cut the fashion fabric, a luscious peacock cotton brocade. I followed the instructions ever so carefully. But something went wrong — a dart. It was off just a tad at the waist. I ripped it out, picking the threads slowly, and tore the fabric! Pelting tears. Heaving sobs. The front and back — unattached — are still hanging in my closet. Need I say reproachfully?

That was a year ago. But I have recovered. I am resilient, if not exactly optimistic. This Schiaparelli ensemble inspires me. It’s the North Star, beckoning, guiding, luring me to try yet again. Can I do it? Can I make something I'll wear this time?