OK. I confess. I stood up my sewing teacher today. I did. But only because I was counting and checking counting and checking counting and checking patterns for the next update at The Blue Gardenia.
However, my lovelies, I did do a little sewing work today. Really. I did a bit – albeit tiny – of organizational work on my sewing room. Which is also my office. So there. I'll take that gold foil star now. Thank you.
When one is having an anxiety attack about the looming mortgage and the dwindling pantry staples, it helps to look good. Really good. Scrumptiously good.
So let's look to that Depression-era queen of slink Jean Harlow for inspiration. Her pajamas are glamorous, yet comfortable. So very. Perfect for sitting in front of the computer screen while you're networking on LinkedIn and BrightFuse. Or for lurking behind the draperies while watching the parade of neighbors as they scurry to work at 8 a.m. Oh, envy. Be gone. Now. That's an order.
And in the meantime, dream of lounging about in McCall 8214, copyright 1935. Maybe in cotton lawn. So much easier to launder. Absolutely.
Sigh.
Ahhh. So.
As you, my dear readers, know, a pink slip was recently delivered to our lovely abode. I didn't like it. In fact — and on this issue I am emphatic — I didn't like it one little bit.
But this pink slip is a different matter. Entirely. It is ever so lovely. Ever so slinky. Ever so sexy. It's from the 1930s, so, of course, it is cut on the bias. It will caress every curve. Lovingly.
I see it in a four-ply silk crepe. A deeper pink, with perhaps just a smidgen of salmon. Can you resist it? Just say no. That is the correct answer. The object — or objects — of your affection will thank you. Passionately.
You deserve a treat. In fact, you deserve many. So. Just for you (and, for me, too, because I have a fondness for a roof over my head and food in my larder), it is update time at The Blue Gardenia. Nearly 70 fabulous, amazing vintage patterns have been added for your viewing and shopping pleasure. May I tempt you with a few choice morsels?
You have a wedding to attend. But there will be no silly, frilly chiffon froth for you. Nosiree. You're in an Irene Dunne mood. You want something different. Something sleek. Something sophisticated. Vogue Couturier Design 346, an exclusive design created in Paris more than 70 years ago, fits the bill. Unusual lines. A slim silhouette. And that blouse. What a blouse. On the other hand, perhaps it is a little mean, a little inconsiderate to wear such a beautiful suit to someone else's wedding. After all, no one will be looking at the bride. Because everyone will have their eyes tuned to you.
Butterick 3226, from the 1940s, is a stunner in the Gene Tierney mode. It is understated. Gorgeous. Striking. Absolutely. Eye-capturing button detail (May I suggest bound buttonholes in a contrasting color? Yes. Yes. Yes.) on the hip and collar. Soft gathers at the waist. Figure-caressing skirt to highlight your assets.
You will channel your inner Jeanne Moreau when you don Vogue Paris Original 1270, circa 1960s, courtesy of Lanvin. It is simple. It is classic. But. It has a twist. Look at the blouse scarf. It is not your ordinary scarf. With an ordinary bow. No. It is — dare I say it, dare I write it — unique. Really. Truly. It is. It references tradition and yet rebels against it. But in a whisper. Ever so quietly. In library tones.
So. There you go. A teaser, if you will, for this update. If these do not delight you, then check out the other additions. I know you will find something. I do. Absolutely. Really. Truly.
And, now, for the tedium. New additions always go at the beginning of each category. And we take Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal to make it easier for you. And, of course, checks, money orders and cold hard cash. Actually, we take warm soft cash, too. We are so agreeable.
Well. It could be worse. Really. Of this I am sure. But His Bertness has now joined the 13 million Americans officially counted as unemployed. Yup. He's been laid off, his job outsourced. Sigh. Whatever happened to loyalty to those who work hard?
For a good look at the erosion of the American Dream, do read America: What Went Wrong by Donald L. Barlett and James B. Steele.
I could say I'm back. I'm here. I'm at the keyboard. But you are smart boys and girls. Very. So you know that.
So. I watched the HBO version of Grey Gardens. Admittedly, in bits and pieces. Here and there. But. I was impressed. I confess I was apprehensive. Why would anyone want to remake the Maysles' 1975 documentary version? I could not fathom. It was perfection. Not only that, it made me feel like, well, a rather superlative homemaker. Ready to star in a Swiffer commercial.
I love the clothes in the new fictionalized version. And you know that I can be quite the ferocious critic when it comes to period pieces. But Catherine Marie Thomas, credited with the costumes, has won the BG seal of approval. Indeedy.
My favorite gown is the cream satin number worn by beauteous Drew Barrymore, who plays Little Edie with ever so much respect and ever so little camp, at a gathering at Grey Gardens in 1937. The snooty hood and the sumptuous fabric make this gown for me. Absolutely. So lush. So sexy.
If you want to emulate this look — and I do — then may I suggest Vogue 5758? It's a 1940s rendition of the look. But oh how wow the drapey bodice would look in satin. Yes, ma'am.
Ahhhhh, girls
and boys. I have wrested myself from the sofa and a Lifetime movie about
obsession (don't ask me the name of it - I haven't a clue . . . but I'm sure it
was very, very high-toned) to update The Blue Gardenia. Oh, the things I do to
make you happy. The sweat. The toil. The sacrifice. Sniff. Sob. Hand me those Puffs, please. Yes, the soothing aloe ones.
Actually.
Truth be told (and you know I am dedicated to veracity) I've been working on
this update for two weeks. Or so. Selecting patterns. Counting the pieces.
Placing them in archival sleeves. And His Bertness, the dear peachy one, has been
scanning, coding, grumbling, etc.
But. At last.
It is done. So, with no more ado, I bring to you highlights from the latest
update:
If you're in a
Kate Hepburn mood, you'll love Butterick 8025. These are the slacks of which
icons are made. (Well, you might want to toss in a little talent. Or not. Your
decision.)
And speaking
of decisions. To bare those triceps or not? Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Oh,
don't fret. Don't. There's no need. Because you can have it both ways in Vogue Special Design
S-4887. The sleeves detach. Really. You can take them right off. Is that as cool as
prewashed baby arugula or what?
And then there
is Vogue Couturier Design 1297. An Irene Galitzene ensemble. A coat. A suit.
Boardroom ready. Snooty restaurant ready. The very definition of chic, my dahlings. The very.
So. There you
go. Check out these gorgeous sewing patterns and all the other stylish additions. Now. Right now. Don't tarry.
After all, I worked so hard. His Bertness worked so hard. Just for you. Just for you - and the mortgage company, of course.
And, now, the details. You knew they were coming, didn't you? New additions always go
at the beginning of each category.
And we take
Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal to make it easier for
you. And, of course, checks, money orders, and cold hard cash. Actually, we take warm soft cash, too. We are so agreeable.
Yes. It's true. Another post about Doris Day. I continue to work my way through her film catalog. (Sheesh! The pointless tasks I set for myself!)
Today, I'll See You in My Dreams, a 1951 pic directed by Michael Curtiz. Ms. Day plays Grace LeBoy Kahn, meddling (or some might say domineering) wife of lyricist Gus Kahn, who wrote – you guessed it, gold stars all around – the lyrics for I'll See You in My Dreams, It Had to Be You, Mammy, and so on. Marjorie Best and Leah Rhodes costumed this film. The clothes tend to the bland. Ever so. Even the evening gowns are dull. My personal favorite is the housewifey waitress dress, or maybe it should be the waitressy housewife dress, shown above.
Now. If this is your look, might I suggest Anne Adams Instructor 4811? Yes. I might. It's my blog. After all. One caveat: Avoid pink. You'll look like you should be slopping hash or toting a basket of chocolate eggs and bunnies.
A friend called. A friend who is a designer. A friend who sews. A friend who lives far away. Too far away to drop in and help me learn to sew. Scaredy cat that I am.
Anyway. This friend . . . this friend . . . asked me: Have you finished your pajama pants? No. I said. I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. Really. I did. I succeeded. I think.
Then the conversation got worse. This friend . . . this friend . . . who lives too far away to help me learn to sew asked: Have you finished your bathroom curtains? Well. Again, I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. It was difficult. Very. But I do have good manners. I do. And it's a good thing, because I haven't finished my bathroom curtains. I haven't. In fact, I haven't sewn a stitch. I've pinned. I've folded. Or so I recall. It's been so long. Maybe it's a false memory. A memory I wish to be true. Maybe. Anyway. It's been so long . . . so very long . . . that I don't even remember where I've stored them. Drat.
But. Back to the conversation, the inquisition: Again. Again. I had to say no. No! No! No! No.
So there. There.
Anyway. This time the dream's on me. As Mr. Arlen said.
Ahh, period
movies. The clothes so often make me cringe. They make me cry. They make me
sneer. They make me whine. You know it, girls and boys.
But, today, a
pleasant surprise: Cadillac Records. Costume designer Johnetta Boone nailed the
period. Totally. She did not strive for the lowest common denominator. She did
not go for that generic Monkey Ward look that mars Mad Men, that had me
grinding my teeth as I watched Far From Heaven. Ms. Boone reached for
the stars, and she caught a handful.
The clothes
are fabulous. Sexy. Beautiful. Authentic. Of the time. And yet, classic. Gorgeous. For the ages.
And Beyonce, as songstress Etta James, has never looked better. Sorry, Weight Watchers. Ms. Knowles is a luscious
advertisement for packing on twenty pounds. And for wearing a curly blonde wig. Not to mention feline eyeliner. (Alas, I have never once skillfully applied frisky kitty liner. Mine always looks more like the work of a rogue kindergartner left alone with fingerpaint.)
And what is it about Adrien Brody? So irresistible on the big screen, even when his character is a wee bit sleazy, yet so skinny, so limp on the small screen.
I am in the
mood for skirts and blouses. This frame of mind could be inspired by Doris
Day's wardrobe in the 1950 movieYoung Man with a Horn. Could be. But then, she also wears
form-fitting yet ladylike suits and frilly evening gowns as big band singer Jo
Jordan. They leave me cold. They leave me frigid. Indeed. Do I still have a
pulse? Mmmmm . . . it's fading.
Of course. Doris is a good girl. (That goes without saying. I suppose.) In fact, she's such a trusting, devoted, clueless gal pal that she introduces her alleged buddy
Amy North, played in slinky psycho fashion by Lauren Bacall, to the man she
quietly, silently loves. Girlfriend, bad move. Very. Be a good girl. If you must. But a sap? No. Amy isn't worth it. Her soul is fuzzy green with mold.
So. If I had
been a good girl — and you know I haven't been. Alas — then I would stitch up McCall
5082, copyright 1959, and Woman's Day 5001, View C, copyright 1951. This is the Jo Jordan look that gets my whistle blowing. It's sexy. Classic. Hard-working. Ever so.
Have Rick Martin (played by Kirk Douglas, muscles abulge, skin aglow, complete with jazz-dot dimple) check my pulse. Please. Right now. This minute. There is no time to waste.
Just finished reading Doris Day: The
Untold Story of the Girl Next Door by David Kaufman. (Don't bother unless
you're a true fan.)
Naturally,
I thought of Ms. Day's clothes. Naturally, I knew I had to blog about the
garments I like.
So.
Shall I start with Romance on the High Seas from 1948? Yes, I shall. What a
fabulous idea. I so often have them. I do. Really.
Milo
Anderson did the wardrobe for this movie (one of film critic Rex Reed's
favorites, Mr. Kaufman writes), and some of the dresses are completely over the
top, like the baby blue number (at least it's baby blue on my 17-year-old Sony)
that Georgia Garrett (yep, our gal Doris) wears on her first evening at sea.
Some ensembles (like the suit she wears in the travel agency) are plain boring.
They make a suit from Talbot's seem worthy of a Vogue photo shoot.
But
this ensemble, worn in Brazil, is perfect. Absolutely. I want this in my
wardrobe. And it is possible. Completely. It can be easily duplicated with
Vogue 5111, circa 1946, and McCall 6794, copyright 1947.
Now.
All I need is a round-trip plane ticket to Brazil. And, of course, one for
His Bertness. First class, please.
Oh. Oscar Levant co-stars in Romance on
the High Seas. Levant, you may recall, quipped: "I knew Doris Day before
she was a virgin."
By the way, I suggest that you avoid Ms. Day's second film, My Dream Is Yours. Ms. Day sings a bouncy bubble of a tune that is second only to Johnny Horton's The Battle of New Orleans in the unrelenting earworm category. You have been warned.
You are old-fashioned. You bake your own cherry pie. Your own whole-wheat bread. And a Cinnabon cinnamon roll? Never! They simply can't compare with the ones that you bake with your own hands.
You are a 1950s woman. All the way. You're modest. Chaste. More Doris Day than Marilyn Monroe. No sex kitten you. No games.
Of course you sew your own clothes. Because today's styles are not to your taste. And the quality of today's ready-to-wear isn't up to your standards anyway. You like the perfect stitch your Featherweight makes. You like the beauty of a Hong Kong finish on the seams of your garments. Bound buttonholes. Hand-picked zippers.
You're more Emilie Loring than Dawn Powell. And you'll take Jane Austen over Joan Didion any day of the week. You won't find Play It As It Lays on your bookshelves.
McCall's 9633, copyright 1953, is your dress. It is pretty. Graceful. Delicate. Delightful. Could anything be more right for the county fair? Well, your award-winning fig preserves. But that's another story . . . one that should be served with fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.
It's been so long. It has. A Blue Gardenia update desert. But. At last. It's here. It is. And I hope you won't be disappointed. In fact. I know you won't be. Because I have some magnificent patterns. Just for you.
You'll find additions in 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s and Lingerie this week. Many outstanding additions. Many. Two of my favorites:
For you Lanvin-Castillo fans, there's Vogue Paris Original 1267, copyright 1954. It is so very, very Grace. Rear Window elegant. Sexy and tantalizing, yet ladylike. He'll long to be risque when you wear this, but won't dare – unless you give him permission. And you will. Won't you?
McCall 9034, copyright 1936, channels Irene Dunne at her most fashionable. From its lantern sleeves to its face-framing collar and drapey jabot, it speaks of haute couture ateliers in 1930s Paris. Don't you love it? I do. Absolutely.
And now for the boring details: New additions always go at the beginning of each category because I want to make shopping fast and easy for you, you wonderful loyal clients. And we take Paypal, American Express, Discover, Mastercard, Visa and cold, hard cash. And The Blue Gardenia is a secure site, so you don't have to worry about ordering online. So there. You know it all now. Don't you?
I refuse to restrain my inner Ms. Snippy. She
yearns to be free. She begs for release. And who I am I to tell her no? I won't
I won't I won't. Especially after that boring Ambien-equivalent Oscar program
last night. It seemed endless. Positively. And as dull as a sack of dirt. Oh. Yes. A heavy sack, indeed.
Where were the movie clips? The Oscar is —
last time I checked - a movie award. I want to see clips. And what was up with
the silly, time-wasting presentation of the acting awards by five former
winners? And Hugh Jackman? Please. I want Jon Stewart. I want Steven Colbert.
But enough. On to the clothes. (Most of them
were snore-inducing as well. Alas.)
Actually, now that I think about it, there
were only two gowns I consider worthy of mention.
Marisa Tomei's pleated, architectural Versace.
Astounding. Beautiful. Sexy. This is the way to bare a shoulder. Absolutely.
Beyonce's gown has been the object of much
derision. Seems some fashionistas decry it as worthy only of draping one's
windows. I disagree. Totally. I love the leaf print and its reference to the
1940s. I love the bodice. I love the 1950s sexy chanteuse silhouette.
And, by the way, just so you know: I do not want to see any more headlines that tout the revival of old Hollywood glamour. So overused. So worn out. So done. No
more. News outlets, you should know better. For shame.
Do you run those pesky errands every Saturday? The grocery store. Costco. The car wash. Staples.
Well. I am here to tell you that I do. And I am more than a little red-faced to share this: I generally wear yoga capris and top unless the weather is quite frigid. Then, I dress up – in jeans and a Three Dots tee-shirt. Please. I beg you. Do not tell the fashion police. Do not tell Stacey and Clinton. Keep this bit of news in the vault. Let this revelation be our little secret. After all, I don't want to be arrested or exposed on national television. The horror.
However. I have plans. I have dreams. I do. And one dream (do not, I repeat, do not say it's a pipe dream) is to make this gorgeous 1930s blouse. I would feel even smarter, even sassier picking out the freshest bagged lettuce mix in this. Absolutely.
And which view would I choose? I am fond of them all. Really. I am. But I think I'll stitch up A1 first. It's stylish. It's comfortable. What more could a woman want?
You think I haven't even been thinking of sewing. That I've been loafing. Or baking cookies. Or polishing my nails. Or doing calculus.
You think.
But. You are so very wrong. Very. I went to see a woman who once taught tailoring at the local community college. (The joys of small-town life: I knocked on her door. Right on her door. Didn't know her last name. Didn't know her phone number. But I did have her address.) Now, as it happened, she was not at home. But her hubby invited me in, and we had a lovely chat. Seems he loves to repair clocks. She loves to sew. Does so two or three nights a week. But. Those are details that you don't want to know. Long story short: After playing phone tag for several days, we spoke at last. She is willing to help me, albeit on a very casual basis. (Just call, if I'm home, you can come by, you can sew on my machine. Et cetera. Small time life.)
So. This is good. Very, very good. Splendiferous even. I think I shall call Monday. Tuesday at the latest.
For me, anyway, is this: I miss a day here. I miss a day there. The days add up. Doubts ensue. They proliferate. Like dust bunnies and dog hair. Does anyone care what I have to say? Do they? Really?
And so it goes. Sigh. Self-pity is so unappealing. Truly.
Vogue Paris Original 2789, Designed by Nina Ricci
There are days when you just don't feel like throwing on your quilted black car coat again. When it simply will not do. When it's too plain. Too ordinary. Too boring. Sure, it's well-cut. Sure, it's comfortable. It's as cozy as a cup of orange pekoe with two cubes of sugar.
Sure, you're only running to the market for mustard greens and peanut butter. But. Doesn't the checker deserve a little lift? Something more attractive than a faded Axl Rose tee-shirt under a tired hoodie? Of course, he does. Of course, she does.
So. What to do? What?
Enrich your options, you stylish cookie, you. Stitch up this exquisite cape by Nina Ricci. Love the scarf collar. So jaunty. So sassy. So perfect. Absolutely.
And some days, it's more exciting than others. It snowed here Saturday. Sunday. Monday. The first pic was taken Monday at dusk, as the snow fell.
It was lovely. Perhaps it's because I'm a Southerner, so each snowfall is an event. Almost like the first time. To be trite.
Of course. Then comes the aftermath. His Bertness shovels. He's having so much fun. I know. He didn't complain. At all. Unless I count his description of his aching muscles. And I don't. I won't. He enjoyed each load of snow. Just ask him. Really.
Henry Jones, our Lab-Great Dane mix, is like me: He enjoys the snow best when he's indoors, peering through double panes of glass. In fact, he's only outside because His Bertness needed his supervision while clearing the driveway.
Emma, the Malamute, cannot get enough. She exults in it. She burrows through it. She practically giggles in glee. Like Bert.
Vogue Paris Original 1088,
Designed by Guy Laroche
Would I beat a dead horse? Of course not. Never! But I must share this: If you were a fan of Michelle Obama's inaugural ensemble, the fabric is available at Michael's Fabrics.
I warn you, though. It is pricey. I have purchased far cheaper fabrics at Michael's, and I can vouch for their merchandise (true quality) and service. So there. Oh, ask for Sherri.
If you decide to buy the fabric, may I suggest Vogue Paris Original 1088? It's a bargain. Really. And it's a fabulous coat. Don't you agree?
I think I'd make the pockets and the dress in a plain wool crepe. Easier on the budget. Indeedy.
Vogue Paris Original 1113,
designed by Jacques Fath,
copyright 1950
Ahhh. Decisions. Decisions. A wrap dress or a suit? A blouse or a gilet? Is it rather fabulous when one pattern supplies all of those looks? It is indeed. Absolutely. Especially when it's a smashing Vogue Paris Original, and it's designed by none other than Fath. Oh, yes. The perfect pattern for those indecisive moments.
It's Sunday night. An awards show was on. Can
you guess where I was? Can you guess what I was doing? You can. I know it.
There are no flies on you. You can put 2 and 2 together and come up with the
proper sum.
So. You've been waiting for this, haven't you?
Holding your breath, right? Tell me you were. Tell me you watched, too. Promise
you'll share your opinions. Please. Even if you — sigh — disagree. Even if you
think I'm full of it.
But. Enough meandering. Give me a drum roll, please. Something worthy of Gene
Krupa. There you go. I like that.
Now. My favorites at the Screen Actors Guild
Awards, in no particular order:
Kate Winslet's cobalt Narciso Rodriguez gown
is aces with me. He's redeemed himself for that dreadful explosion that
Michelle Obama wore on election night with this curve worshipper. Love it.
Truly.
And Laura Linney can toss this coral Michael
Kors my way when she's done with it. Love it. Absolutely. From the luscious
color to the one-shouldered bodice. This is the dress from which dream evenings
are made. Absolutely. Absolutely. Absolutely.
Ditto for Eva Longoria's peachy froth of a
gown. Adore the color. Adore its Ginger Rogers-ness. All Eva needs is Fred
Astaire. This cupcake of a dress was designed by Jenny Packham. I know there are those who will quibble at this choice, who will find fault with the peplum, who will insist this dress is so darn sweet it could frost a cake. But. I have a weakness for frosting. Just don't skimp on the butter.
And. Speaking of food. I did take time off from glamour gazing to be a domestic goddess. (Yes, I know Martha would be appalled by the clutter on my countertops and the newspapers stacked on one end of the kitchen table. But, really, there's no need for her to know. Is there? Lips zipped and all that.) I baked pizza. I made the dough from scratch. Piled it high with grape tomatoes, yellow peppers, red onions. So tasty. So pretty. So healthy. And. For extra points on the DG test, I served the pizza with a salad of Arizona lettuces and lemon zest vinaigrette. Yum bunnies.
1. Awakened from dreamy, contented sleep by Minerva, who arrived early. Minerva cleans our house, and yes, I am ever so grateful for her housekeeping efforts. Absolutely. But. I also really like to sleep. I really do. And since I generally go to sleep very late . . . well, you understand. I really wanted to ignore her knocking. I really wanted to be grumpy. Oh. So. Much. But, of course, I wasn't. I was warm and friendly and did not complain. I did not ask: Why are you here so early? Because I am nice. Because I strive for that attitude of gratitude. Really.
2. Emma, our Malamud, had diarrhea on Henry's rug. Henry is our Great Dane-lab mix. He's very good-natured. Very. Have I mentioned how much I love to clean up dog shit? Oh. I haven't. Well, girls and boys, that's because I don't. Not one bit.
3. At this point, I decided I deserved a sofa day. A very lazy, very slothful sofa day. Which meant TV, because the book I'm reading now is a very heavy hardback. Surprise, surprise, surprise: There was nothing of interest on the telly.
4. His Bertness and I ran to Safeway. Or, at least, that was our plan. A plan marred by one teensy-tinesy fact: We locked ourselves — and Henry and Emma — out of the house. Bert ended up going through a second-story window. Thank goodness the ladder was outside and not inside the garage. Procrastination scores again! His Bertness did look rather cute as he pitched forward into his office.
5. We were awakened at 3 a.m. Why? Emma had diarrhea. Again. Poor Emma. Poor me. Poor Bert. Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy.
6. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy cleaning?
