Sunday? Yes. Sedona? Yes. Sewing? Not so much. September 22, 2009 18:52 1 Comment

Lantana + roses + blue grama grass seed + toil = beauty. September 12, 2009 17:22

I can hear the sound of violins . . . Oh. Enough.  I won't bore you with Sway lyrics, dear readers. I've done that before, I'm sure. But. You know I love that song. I do. So much.

Today, let me share with you pictures of our new yard. This is not the reveal, as they say on the home decor shows. Not yet. There is still work to be done. Planting. Edging. Weeding. But there has been progress. Much.

First, tilling.

Then planting.

Then deep Bertness thoughts. I'm sure. Thoughts that have nothing to do with exhaustion or sweat or desire for ice cold tea.

And since I know you really want to know: Rosemary Clooney and Perez Prado do one sizzling version of Sway. Absolutely.

Inspirations: It's timeless. Beautiful. Elegant. And it is you. September 10, 2009 08:45

Phantom Sighting: Art After the Chicano Movement.

Inspirations: I'm getting sleepy. September 9, 2009 18:04

Ahhh.  If I were but a Bust 34, then this pattern would provide yet another garment for me to procrastinate about sewing. Alas . . . I do so love Anne Adams Instructor 4919. The shoulder ties, so enticing. The lines, so delicious. 

 I wonder . . . do these Instructor patterns actually instruct?

The job search continues September 9, 2009 16:30

Actually, His Bertness deserved an afternoon off. He's been working hard, writing cover letters and sending out resumes. And Henry Jones always works hard, protecting us. Absolutely. 

Let this be more than food for thought. I beg you. August 25, 2009 16:44

Today, I'll keep it simple, straightforward, succinct: See Food, Inc. For me. For yourself. For the planet.

OK. I'm stepping off my soapbox now and going back to A Closed Eye.

She never bothers with people she hates. Call her what you will. August 22, 2009 05:22 1 Comment

For eleven years — yep,  count 'em, each and every one — she's toiled to be nice. Being polite to phonies. Going to lunch with people who bored her. Attending wakes for people she did not like. Keeping her mouth shut when people were marginally prejudiced.

She is ethical. She does the right thing. And she will still do those, even when it pinches or binds. Absolutely.

No. She means nice. She means being pleasing. Agreeable. Socially acceptable rather than authentic.

And you know what? She is done. Done. Absolutely. Completely. Totally. Totally.  

And what better dress to announce this than Butterick 6092, from the 1950s. And where will she get this pattern? Why, at The Blue Gardenia.

Of course.

And, no. She will not wear the bolero. The gloves — and the jacket — are coming off.

Inspirations: He will say please. He will. August 19, 2009 18:38

You are meeting him for coffee. A daytime date. Your first. In  the daylight, that is. You've met for dinner. Thrice. The movies. Twice. You're ready to kick the relationship up a notch. Or two. Or three.

To be blunt: He is hot. Sizzling. In fact, his pot is boiling over. He's smart. Witty. Empathic. Successful. 

And it is time. Time for him to fall at your feet. To howl at your beauty like a dog in heat. To be your man. (Thank you, Leonard Cohen.)

So. You face that old question. What to wear? Something chaste? No way. Something all out Joan Holloway sexy? Mmmm . . . not quite. You don't want to be too obvious. McCall's 4418, copyright 1957. That is what you need. Perfection. It hints. It whispers. It is perfect. Absolutely. He will step into the ring. For you. And he will not let you down.

Occasionally, I take my own advice August 15, 2009 19:05 1 Comment

And here's proof. No whining. No complaining. No letting depression soak my spirits. Just the dance floor. And a glitter ball. And the music. And my beloved Bertness and a rumba. 

Shall we dance? Absolutely. Right now. This minute. August 14, 2009 10:10 1 Comment

So. Your job has been outsourced. Your health insurance canceled. The lettuce you were going to serve for dinner is slimy and limp.

But.

This is no time to wallow in the doldrums, to experience every shade of blue. No, you must fight. You must not give in. You must dance. You must. Put up your dukes. Slip on your dance shoes.

And is there a better dress than McCall 4735, copyright 1942, to wear as you glide across the floor? I think not. It is the most. Absolutely. From  the sweetheart dip at the decolletage to the bodice that caresses your hips and midriff to the irresistible lines of the full skirt, which will flare enticingly as you swirl to Waltz 2 from the Shostakovich Jazz Suite.

Take that, melancholy. You can't survive the dance floor. And you certainly cannot defeat this dress. Don't even try. Don't even.

Take one capsule of fashion fantasy, and call me in the morning. August 12, 2009 12:37 1 Comment

So, my friends, today I have the blues. You are doubtless shaking your heads in disgust, saying, "Denise, every day you have the blues. Every day." And sometimes, you know, I feel that's true. Absolutely. I do.

(And if I may quote Townes Van Zandt, I ask you, my patient readers, will you still love me when I'm down and out? Will you stand by me in my time of trial? Or something like that. You know what I mean. Don't you? I know you are doubtless bored to tears by my damp tissue dramas. But. I beg you: Hang in there. WIth me. By my side. Etc.)

Anyway. What's a woman to do? Switch anti-depressants? Toss the Celexa? Try Lexapro instead?  Wellbutrin perhaps? Well. Maybe. But, first, there's that unpleasant COBRA situation that must be straightened out. Resolved. In my favor, of course. Faith, my dear readers, faith and action.

Another possibility: Call a friend. No. No can do. They are likely bored with my sniffles. And if they slammed the phone down, think how devastated I would be. That might push me right over the edge. And quickly.

So. I decided the best option, the best avenue to a happier mood, was the gorgeous street of dreams, vintage sewing patterns. I turned first to the 1930s. The Great Depression, yes. But also the era of Carole Lombard. Irene Dunne. Myrna Loy. Just looking at the patterns brightened my day. A bit. But which pattern, if made up and worn, would actually make me feel better? Stronger. More able to competently, coolly, calmly — without raised voice — handle life's sometimes nasty realities? Like health insurers, senators, representatives.

I chose Butterick 6303, view A. All the views are terrific. They are. Each and every one of them. This is truly a pattern to make the accountant smile. But view A has that wide collar that I find so irresistible. It's double-breasted. The sleeves have those ever-so-sassy cuffs. Love them. Love it. Completely. Absolutely. I see it in a periwinkle cotton sateen, with a white organdy collar and huge mother of pearl buttons. Huge.

Yes, I feel a smile playing around my lips.  I do. I feel that darn attitude of gratitude Oprah constantly touts swelling in my heart. Oh. Yes. Yes.

Life isn't so bad. Really. It isn't. And with Fred Astaire (lovely, lovely, never ever change) on the CD, it positively — forgive me — sings. Albeit in a whisper.

If you can't eliminate the negative, try this August 7, 2009 20:13 2 Comments

OK, sweeties, this is what I did after I  blogged last night. Kendra of the Goddess of Gumbo's Sugar Hollow Diary tagged me (whatever that means — you know what a cyber Luddite I am) on my Facebook page. It proved a fun challenge. Very. It took my mind right off  the COBRA nightmare.  For a brief while. And I can tell you, dear readers, that I am ever grateful for that respite. Because I can obsess. Really.

So. If you want to try it yourself, here are the rules: Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Cleverly, I said. I insist.

You may use Ella, but you MUST use different song titles. No cheating. Try not to repeat a song title. This assignment is a lot harder than you think. Truly.

It would make me so happy — positively blissful, of course — if you share these with me. Just be sure to use the artist/band's name as the subject of your email or post, or I will rap you across the knuckles with a pica pole. Sharply.

I chose Ella. Of course. (Although I have been listening a lot this week to The First Cut Is the Deepest. Love the Rod Stewart and Sheryl Crow versions. Wish Linda Ronstadt would cover it in the studio. Then hers could move into the Number One spot. You never know.)

Are your pencils sharpened? Here you go:

Are you a male or female:

Sophisticated Lady

Describe yourself:

The Lady is a Tramp

How do you feel:

I Got a Right to Sing the Blues

Describe where you currently live:

Mountain Greenery

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:

I Love Paris

Your favorite form of transportation:

A Ship without a Sail

Your best friend is:

Little Girl Blue

You and your best friends are:

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

What's the weather like:

Too Darn Hot

Favorite time of day:

In the Still of the Night

If your life was a television show, what would it be called:

I Could Write a Book

What is life to you:

Just Another Rumba

Your fear:

Fidgety Feet

What is the best advice you have to give:

Ac-cent-tchu-ate- the Positive

Thought for the day:

When You're Smiling (the Whole World Smiles with You)

How I would like to die:

Reaching for the Moon

My soul's present condition:

A Foggy Day

My motto:

Let's Face the Music and Dance

So there ya go. If you're fretting over something, try it. Better than a crossword puzzle or a cup of tea. Really.

(And, yes, I do want the dress Ella is wearing here. Luscious. Absolutely.)

Don't believe your eyes: It's the little town of horrors. Really. August 6, 2009 15:44 8 Comments

Excuse me, dear, dear readers, but today I warn you: I am going to rant. I will waste no time. I will add one other caveat: This has nothing to do with sewing. This has nothing to do with patterns. So, you may take today off from reading The Blue Gardenia learns to sow her blossoms. I understand. I will not be upset. Just allow me to vent. As always, I welcome your comments. Heck, I not only welcome them, I appreciate them. Share your knowledge. Share your humor. Make me feel better. Is that so hard?

So. Where to begin? Mmmm. I'll start with today. I'll construct this building from the roof down. Not so smart, surely, but I'm emotional at the moment.

Now, as those of you who follow this blog know, His Bertness was laid off in April. Pink-slipped with two weeks severance. He's still looking for work, and it is most likely no news to you, my informed darlings, that this is a tough job market. He competed with 87 applicants for a job at a junior college in the Midwest. I kid you not. He's highly intelligent, vastly talented, and a pretty boy to boot (and let's face it, looks matter, even if they shouldn't.) He'll get a great job, far better than his last, sooner or later. I know it.

Am I digressing? Am I giving you too much detail? Bear with me. Be patient. I need to vent. I do. So. On my way to meet a girlfriend for lunch (thank you, dearest Carol, for treating) I stopped by the pharmacy to get a prescription filled. My pharmacy tech said there was a problem with my insurance. Did I have a new card? Well, yes, I did, but it was at home on a bookshelf. I called and hubby gave her the info verbally. The prescription still did not go through. She asked me to bring the card in later today.

When I got to the privacy of my car, I called His Bertness to alert him to the problem. (I think talking on cell phones in public places exhibits bad manners of the most egregious kind. So, I'm judgmental. So be it. At least I can spell the word. Yes, I am in a bad mood. Very.) When I got home, he gave me the bad news: Our COBRA insurance had been canceled. Canceled. He said they told him only one payment had been received. Totally untrue, and I quickly got him all the info from our bank about when checks had cleared. He called his former company and passed this on. It did no good. (Unethical, uncaring, unconcerned asses. That's my opinion, and I would be ever so happy to have them step up to the plate and prove they care about their former employees by making the company they hired to administer their COBRA plan do the right thing.) He called the company who administers the COBRA program for his company. Naturally, they have outsourced most of the customer service jobs to another country. So, after talking to two people abroad, who knew nothing and had no power, he was transferred to four folks in the USA. They said our COBRA payments would be returned, with the exception of the first month (they, by the way, refused all claims submitted for that month). I want them to return the stimulus money that funded 65 percent of our COBRA payments. Bet they don't. Of course, what I really want is our insurance reinstated. This minute.

OK. Here's where this whole story gets even stickier: I blame Prescott. I do. It's true that His Bertness's former company is actually located in Prescott Valley (oh, thank you, Van Morrison and James Hunter, how long can I be pissed when I am listening to y'all? Shut up, guys, this is righteous anger) but his company has laid off so many people. And it used to be in Prescott. And because this is Prescott, a retirement community, well-paying jobs are scarcer than hen's teeth.

And, of course, I need to say that Bert's layoff only follows a gazillion other bad things that have happened since we moved here eleven years ago: HB's hepatitis C diagnosis, a terrifying house fire (thank God for a watchful neighbor and a terrific fire department), and bad lawyers. Oh, and did I mention that I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis? So there you go. Too many bad things have happened here. I think the universe is trying to tell  us something, like, move on, dummies! His Bertness gets annoyed when I blame Prescott. Yes, I take the responsibility for moving here, starry-eyed and aglow with love for Thumb Butte and the pine trees. But. C'mon. At a certain point, you have to admit your mistakes and move on. Don't you?

But. Let me end on a positive note. Let me share my experience, strength and hope with you:

Don't move to a small town, no matter how picture-postcard beautiful it is, no matter how quaintly old-fashioned the downtown square is, until you check out the job market. Don't just assume that because you have always worked, because you've never had a hard time finding a job, that that will hold true in a small town. Because. Potential employers ask these annoying questions, such as, what was your salary on your last job? Forget that you don't expect to get anywhere near that — after all, you're getting paid in sunshine dollars — just the fact that you were paid decent wages in your life Before Prescott (or insert your small dream town here) will intimidate the future employer. And don't think for a moment you'll get a job flipping burgers. You won't. You'll be overqualified. Truly. Remember that hilarious scene in Lost in America? I know. There are so very, very many. A bounty. But the one where Albert Brooks is working as a crossing guard? Total Hollywood fantasy. Will not happen. A local already has that job, and he isn't giving it up!

Oh. Well. As a great poet once said, life sucks, then ya die.

And, until then, I'll be grateful for my wonderful Blue Gardenia clients, James Hunter, Van Morrison, Albert Brooks and Julie Hagerty. I think I'll rent that movie tomorrow. Absolutely.

And I must credit the Photos from Prescott blog for the gorgeous picture of Goldwater Lake. Thank you. And thank you, sweet and patient readers, for sticking through to the end. I appreciate you. I do.

See. Or be seen. This fits either bill. Easily. August 5, 2009 18:48

So. There are those nights, aren't there? Those nights  when you feel slinky. Sexy. You feel good. You look good. You want to stay home. Now. This minute. But you could change your mind. You could. It's your prerogative. You might want to go out. In one hour. Or two.

What to wear? Ahh, the dilemmas one faces. The pesky dilemmas. You want something that won't pinch or bind while you're curled on your chaise by the pool. Something that will let the breezes blow cool on your skin. Something that will also look chic if — when — you decide to stroll into town for dinner. 

Polynesian Pattern 211 provides the perfect sartorial solution. Sassy enough to make his heart go boom-boom-boom. Easy enough for you to sit with one sandal-clad foot tucked underneath you. The solution. Truly.

When the sun comes out: Ella leads me from the darkness July 31, 2009 10:34 5 Comments

You might have guessed this. You might. If you're a close friend. If you read this blog regularly. I love Ella. I do. Which is, I suppose, ironic, if you consider that I once sneered at her.

Once, long ago, when I was little more than a callow coed, I spent two weeks with a newspaper photographer who lived in a trailer on the border. (You don't need to know why. Really. The details are not as interesting as you might think. Truly. So let your imagination soar.) This guy was mad, mad for Ella. He followed her when he wasn't working. He shot several of her album covers. Ella was always on his stereo. Always. There was never a moment of silence. I was confused. Puzzled. Perplexed. Ella? Why? Why not Helen Humes? Alberta Hunter? Billie? Ella? Ella?  Square. That was the word for Miss Fitzgerald. Or so I thought. Then. Oh, silly, silly little blonde girl.

Now. Now, I am nearly as ardent about Ella as Tad. (Was that his name? Mmmm. I think so. Good photographer. Obviously.) When I am locked in a dark place, she unlocks the door. She reminds me not only that I can be better, but that I should be. She reminds me to reach for the stars. Because it's the right thing to do. Whether I  ever catch one or not.

So. I have been reading about Miss Fitzgerald. Namely, Ella Fitzgerald: A Biography of the First Lady of Jazz by Stuart Nicholson. Let me share these interesting tidbits about Ella:

From 1953 until the mid-70s, she was chosen as the top female vocalist by Down Beat critics poll.

Says pianist Jimmy Rowles: "She was always either singing or listening to music. . . . Music is everything."

So, dear readers, what do you think about Ella? Share. Please. I want to know. I wait, breath bated.

When the wind blows free, let this protect you from fashion gusts July 27, 2009 13:27

 

Oh, sure. It's sweltering outside. At the moment. And the last thing, the very last thing you want to think about right now is a cape. Or any kind of coverup. Unless it has an SPF of 20 or more. But soon, the wind will blow brisk. And you will need protection. And is there anything better than this cape? The collar oozes attitude. So dashing, so sassy turned up just so. A perfect foil for your eyes. Absolutely.

Think how comfortable this cape will be. It's full. Roomy. No need to fret about pulling your dress sleeve down inside the coat sleeve. Egads. That can be so cumbersome. You know it.

Ahhh, yes. Vogue 8416, circa 1970s, fits the bill for winter fashion. It does. And it's very easy. Look. Right there on the envelope. Very easy, Vogue brags. And we know they wouldn't lie.

I'm sewing. I am. And the fabric is making me hungry. July 25, 2009 13:30

Do you ever wonder what it is with hubbies? I do. Frequently. Continuously. Sheesh! His Bertness is redoing the irrigation system. Again. Or should I scream AGAIN? He's been working on it for two months now. Two months. At least. He's like a speckled teenager toying with a pimple. He just can't leave it alone.

Oh. Well. It could be worse. Really.

Anyway. On to my task for the day. I'm sewing. A slipcover for the ottable. Out of this luscious pear fabric by Robert Allen. I made the ottable pattern myself. Are you impressed? I am. If you're good, I'll show you pictures tomorrow. And if I'm good. Of course. 

Inspirations: Friday night. At home. With Ella. July 24, 2009 15:31

Oh, I am being a glum chum. Indeed. I should be at the dance. Should be. (Don't you hate shoulds? I do. Although I guilt-trip myself with them. Frequently. We're actually quite close, shoulds and I. But that's another story. For another time. Maybe. But tonight, dear readers, you're safe. I won't bore you with the Denise-Should affair.)

Inspirations: Galitzine, zipped or unzipped. July 22, 2009 08:23

Phoenix. Paradise Valley. Scottsdale. 113 degrees. Oh. My. Can you say hot? Or, to quote Buster Poindexter aka David Johansen, hot, hot, hot! Or should I quote Soca musician Arrow, who wrote it first? Mmmm . . . decisions. Questions. Et cetera.

Inspirations: It's elegant. It's sleek. And is it ever powerful. July 21, 2009 13:42

Have you ever had one of those days? You know the kind. The driver in the scarlet Miata cuts in front of you. Your boss yells at you. You get a hangnail. Your lawyer forgets your appointment. Your dog slips past you at the door and you trip and scuff your left knee and your vintage Levine pumps chasing after him. 

The march of the dust bunnies: The adventure begins. Earnestly. July 3, 2009 02:28 2 Comments

So. I admit it: I'd rather be sleeping. I prefer to leave it for others to enjoy the dawn. I do. The sunrise may be exquisite. It may be. But. Frankly, I find sleep more so. Sunsets are gorgeous and at a more attractive time. In my humble opinion.

And did my first pillow pass the test? June 21, 2009 14:29

So. I met with sewing dominatrix-diva Marti. She is teaching me to sew. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say "trying." As in she is trying to teach me to sew.

Shameless plug: Handywoman apron? Fath halter? We have it. June 10, 2009 18:24

I've got that '60s groove goin' on. Tom Jones growling on the CD . . . once upon a time there was an Eden . . . once upon a time there was an Eve.

So. We've updated. We have. In a big way. So many pattern additions. And such stylish additions. You don't mind if I toot The Blue Gardenia's horn, do you? 

If you do decide to fall in love again, then Vogue Paris Original 1176, designed by masterful Jacques Fath in 1952, will have him on his knees begging love me tonight  . . . darling, be kind for I'm out of my mind over you. Of course, you won't change your mind. You're determined. You're strong. You've hardened your heart. Right? Right? I'm waiting for your answer.

I did it. I stitched. I sewed. I did. Absolutely. June 7, 2009 19:33 4 Comments

I did it. I know. You doubted me. You thought I was all talk. Didn't you? Go on. Admit it. I forgive you.