I'm in heaven when you read my blog. Really. August 21, 2008 18:42 8 Comments

I should be Ms. Confidence Brimming. I should know, know, lovely, ever so appreciated readers, that you love me. Or at least, the very least, that you like me. I should know that you love my blog. Or failing that expansiveness of emotion, at least, like my blog. I should not care. Really. I shouldn’t. But I do care. I do. I want you to like me. I admit it. I’m insecure. I need to feel the love.
Remember that girl in third grade? She sat at the corner table at lunch, in her concrete slab thick glasses, a little plump, in her cute black and white dotted swiss dress with the apple aplique, feet clad in Bass Weejuns, reading Trixie Belden. She felt conspicuous, so self-aware. She felt everyone pitied her, she with her skin as white as Blue Horse paper, except for those freckles sprinkled like raindrops across her nose. She longed to be a Lisa, a Tiffany, a Heather, with their caramel skin and eyes as blue as Heaven Sent.
And then seventh grade. She was more comfortable in her pale white skin, with her red YSL platforms and tomato red jersey dress banded in lemon yellow. So chic. So very, very un-Gonzales, La. Sure, other girls with their blue jean hips and Candies thought she was, well, weird. Extremely. But. She knew who she was. She knew. And she accepted it.
However, dear, dear readers, I confess. There’s still a tiny part of that third-grader inside me. Alas. I need to know you like my blog. Really. My ego is fragile. Be faithful. Love me. Love my blog.
Blogging can be lonely. Here alone in my office, I sit. Revealing. I could be downstairs with His Bertness, watching The Colbert Report. Jon Stewart. But here I am. Exposing my insecurities. Being – gulp – needy. So unattractive. However.
Is it OK if bloggers are insecure? Is it OK if bloggers wear their hearts on their sleeves? I dunno. I don’t. I make my own rules. And I was repelled when Sally Field yelped at the Oscars “You like me, right now, you really like me!” I was. Totally. I was embarrassed for her. Poor Sally. Give her a box of Puffs and a psychologist. Quick. But. I get it now. I do. Completely. Show me the love. Show me you care by reading my blog. Every day. Every single one. C’mon. Make me happy. Please. Don't make me get out the Puffs. It's bad for the environment.
Am I being unreasonable? Am I? Probably. But. Oh, well. What is, is. And now you know. (And yes, I'm a Van Morrison fan.)

Since I'm so darn nice, I won't name names August 20, 2008 18:23

Arrrrggggghhhh. Yippee skippee, yippee skippee, yippee skippee! Why these conflicting emotions, dear readers? Well, not love, though I suppose you could say love led me here. In a long and roundabout way. A very long, very meandering, very roundabout way.
Tonight, hubby and I went to pay for new carpet at Home Depot. This was our third trip concerning carpet. The first trip, we picked out a gorgeous carpet that was pet friendly and durable (as carpet goes, that is, when you have two canine friends). We set up the measure. Home Depot called with the quote. And we discovered our dream carpet was too expensive. Much too.
So. Trip two: We picked out another carpet. Just as durable, just as pet-friendly, but considerably less pricey. Less attractive as well. But with the charming moniker of Bon Jour.
Naturally, we had to bring the new sample home to pick out a color in our light. We didn’t want a carpet that looked like the perfect greige in the store to be World War I mustard on our floor.
So. I called Home Depot today to ensure everything was ready to go. My sales associate assured me that all we had to do was come in and pay. Yes, indeedy. She wouldn’t be there, but not a big deal. Not a big deal at all. Anyone there could handle it. Really. She said.
When we arrived at Home Depot (in case you're counting — and I know you are — this is trip three), His Bertness asked “Do I have to come in? Can’t I just sit in the car?” No. No. A thousand times no. You must come in because you know there’s always a little waiting involved at Home Depot. And if I have to suffer — heavy sigh — you have to suffer. Isn't that what love is all about? Together. Wherever. Etc.
So, in we go, walking ever so briskly to the flooring department. Because, of course, we want to hurry back home. We have socks to mend, sweaters to knit, and so on. You know.
There’s only one sales associate in sight. We ask him to help us. He replies that he has to finish something first. Fine. We’ve come prepared for waiting. And I can tell you that’s a good thing, because wait we did. So he finished his task and turned to us. And then the real waiting began. He couldn’t find our order. He seemed quite irritated with us over this matter. Then I had to be difficult. I wanted two different carpet colors. On one order. The nerve. The gall. The computer system wasn’t set up for this. The computer system would not figure out how much carpet we needed of Marble and how much we needed of Old Cedar. Dang customers, I’m sure he was screaming under his breath. So. I twiddled my thumbs. I tried to see the beauty in all mankind. I waited. The light did not come on for him. I proffered a suggestion: Since we only wanted one room in Old Cedar, why not simply subtract the yardage for that room from the total. (Meanwhile, His Bertness is sitting beside me, reading the new J.A. Jance book, completely oblivious. Completely.) So, the sales associate — let’s call him Grumpy — hits many computer keys, without a desirable result. He gets out his old-fashioned calculator. A Luddite’s dream. But, heck, it works. Now, Grumpy only has to get his computer to accept the figure. Much muttering and keyboarding ensues. Much.
And, then, I pulled out my coupon . . .
All in all, we were in the flooring department for more than an hour. Really. But the carpet is ordered. Finally. And you, my friends, believe it or not, have gotten the Reader’s Digest condensed version of this story. Because I am so darn considerate. So there.

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 can she sew a fine seam? We'll know. One day. Really. August 17, 2008 19:52 5 Comments

I’ve been at it again. Reading about sewing rather than sewing. (But I have a good excuse. Really. I’m waiting for His Bertness to move my sewing machine cabinet into my Designated Sewing Area.) And, of course, I’m reading about the step I am stuck on: cutting and marking. Well, actually, I’m a bit — a wee, tiny bit — beyond that step. I am. But not much. Alas.
So, “How to Lay Out, Cut and Fit,” part of the Sears Illustrated Sewing Series, shows two different methods of cutting notches. I find this quite interesting. Not that there is anything earth-shatteringly different in this 1964 booklet. But one method is slightly different from what I’ve read before. (Or at least what I absorbed before. Could be a retention issue. I should, I suppose, allow the possibility that I read this elsewhere, and it just did not stick. So unlikely, though. Of course.) But, at any rate, this booklet shows an actual inside notch rather than a simple clip. I’m sure this is a bore to you learned and practiced dressmakers. But. You newbies may find it as fascinating as I did.
Also — this brings up a question for the skilled dressmakers out there — the uncredited writers (shame on you, Sears) of this booklet say “seamlines . . . should be transferred to the material.” Is this really necessary, she asked in an ever-so-whiny voice. Must I? Must I? Must I? I’m eagerly awaiting your answers, as I am sure my fellow students of the art and craft of sewing are as well. Share that knowledge, please. I want to know. Because it seems like a lot of work. Tedious work. And if it’s not really necessary, I have laundry to wash and roses to prune. But if it’s essential to a beautiful garment, of course, recovering perfectionist that I am, well, I’ll just procrastinate some more. I’m quite capable of it. Absolutely. As you know.

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.

As crabby as Mr. Burns but not as cunning August 13, 2008 19:13 3 Comments

Violins, please start. Right now. Do not delay.
Today was one of those days. I wanted to put my hands over my face and scream, scream, scream, scream. Scream. Loud. Very, very loud.
May I be one of those bloggers with the perfect life, the perfect house, the perfect lawn? With the scrupulously clean floors, the artfully arranged pillows, and the always camera ready dogs? One of those bloggers who believes everything happens for a reason. That things always work out for the best. A regular Pollyanna with a home suitable for Elle Decor's persnickety editors. Please. I'm asking very nicely. That's what I want, and I really would be most grateful to get it before Christmas. I don't even need fancy gift wrap.
Thank you.
I exaggerated. A tad. A wee tad. I have the camera ready doggies. And they are a joy. Really.

And once again: Slow, slow, quick, quick, quick, ronde August 12, 2008 19:31 4 Comments

Vogue Individualist 2311, circa 1990s

I’m not sure how it happened. But. It happened. The vacuum that is YouTube sucked up 52 minutes. Yep, 52 minutes. Minutes spent looking for just the right video to show you. Minutes that will never come again. Why did I allow this to happen. Why? Well, for you, dear, dear readers. Only for you. Naturally, I would never waste a moment – not one moment – watching dance videos on the Net. No. Not me. But. I wanted you to see it, the dance that has His Bertness and I trying over and over and over again, yet not quite achieving even the very lowest rung of mediocrity. That would be, yes, the West Coast Swing. The very dance that introduced us to The Binking Bunny. http://thebluegardenia.typepad.com/the_diary_of_the_blue_gar/2008/08/dont-gag-but-it.html Thank you, Beth from upstate New York, for introducing me to that word.
So. I suffered. For you. And this is the video, dancing courtesy of Arjay Centeno and Tatiana Mollman, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZOx4nowPNY that best illustrates what we are working to learn. Work that will not be in vain. I know. Practice makes perfect, as the ubiquitous they says. And would they lie? Never.
However. One area I have much practice in is selecting the right outfit. And I think this Betty Jackson, with the 40s-flair slacks and minus the jacket, would be beyond fabulous for the WCS. Yes. I do. Tatiana, you're luscious, so, please, meet Ms. Jackson. You'll be great together. Like lemonade and maraschino cherries.

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.

Pass the Puffs, please: An unexpected benefit of friendship August 9, 2008 18:19 1 Comment

Yippee. Skippee. Let me repeat that: Yippee. Skippee. The muslin is complete except for the facings. (Yes, I know they will probably be pesky. But. No unpleasant thoughts now. Nope. Not now.) This, thanks to a gal pal’s help. Marti, a glamorous, exceptional dancer who also just happens to whip up most of her clothes, generously offered to help me with my muslin today.
So. I went to her home, and we sipped acai berry juice and sewed. And ironed. And chalked. And trimmed (correcting my jagged edges — you remember those, don’t you?). And we did this all under the masterful eyes of her alpha kitty, Sulis.
You dressmaking goddesses may not be impressed with my afternoon’s work, but I am pleased as punch. Yes, I am. I am darn near impressed with myself. I could look ahead to the facings and get nervous. Scared. Terrified, in fact. I could. But ya know what? I am staying in the moment. This moment. I am. I am going to enjoy my accomplishment today. Here. Now. Taking my cue from Ms. O’Hara. I’ll worry about attaching the facings tomorrow. Or Monday.
This dress is going to be fab. I know it. I know it. I do. Rhett Butler would approve. Thank you, Marti. I am misty-eyed with gratitude. Pass the Puffs now. Please.

Don't gag, but it was truly a moment (or three) of magic August 8, 2008 09:07 3 Comments

I am a skeptical sort, truly, and I am not at all fond of things smarmy. I don’t like bows, or mary-janes, or cute sayings needlepointed and framed. I don’t want to gaze into someone’s eyes while sharing a cherry soda on a Sunday afternoon. And I absolutely loathe the word “awesome.”
So, I am more than a tiny smidgeon embarrassed to share one of those special isn’t-the-universe-grand moments. But I shall do it anyway. Even though it makes me blush. I’ll doubtless have a shame hangover in the morning. Oh well oh well oh well. But. Here goes.
So. Deep breath. Hubby and I were driving home from a West Coast Swing class (don’t ask — I’m sure we’ll get it one day, in this lifetime or another) and a bunny ran across the road. Yes, a bunny, so cute, and so very furry. His Bertness braked. (Yes, we do brake for bunnies and squirrels and turtles and even snakes. We would brake for grasshoppers if our vision were that good.) The bunny stopped. It stopped and hopped straight up — gee, at least two feet, if not higher — and I swear his little bunny feet wiggled back and forth as he levitated for one moment, two, three. Then he hit pavement and ran back across the street, the same way he came. Really. I am not kidding. I am not making this up. I am not exaggerating — not even the slightest bit. We were awed. Completely. Totally.
So. While I wouldn't say the universe is always grand, and I most certainly wouldn't say it is awesome, sometimes, it's not so bad.

Scintillating details about ironing and pressing. Really. August 7, 2008 06:47 2 Comments

I confess. More reading. (Isn't it a kick? You can learn so much. Really. Avoid that scary sewing machine. The bobbin that seems determined to jam.) So. I am going to share some tips from The Art of Sewing: The Classic Techniques, copyright 1973. I picked up this entire series of Time/Life books years ago at an antique store. I just knew, I just knew, even then that one day I’d try sewing, and try it diligently.
I thumbed through a couple of volumes yesterday, and they were both far too advanced for this novice. And how. But this volume is quite helpful. So much so that I simply must spread the knowledge. I must. Absolutely. I refuse to even try to restrain myself on this issue. Now, this information will doubtless be very old hat to you practiced dressmakers — so please, forgive me for boring you, please, please, please — but I think you other learners will wiggle your ears in delight.
So. Here ya go:
Ironing. Use a long, gliding, forward motion. Try not to move the iron backwards — you might put wrinkles back in.
Pressing. Set the iron straight down on the material with even pressure; lift it straight up.
Detail pressing. With your free hand, open up angles and folds in the fabric. Use only the point of the iron to press confined spaces.
OK, students: Didja get it? And dressmakers extraordinaire, please let me know if you disagree. I don’t want to learn bad habits. And I especially don't want to share them with my ever so appreciated readers. Nosirree.

The cure for the lower back sewing blues? Could be. August 5, 2008 02:22 5 Comments

So. I have decided I must get a sewing table. Must. Absolutely. A total necessity. Just ask my back. Ask my inner perfectionist who is very unhappy with jagged cutting lines. I perused the internet in between dealing with The Bathroom Drama, Part 3. (Won’t bore you with that ongoing saga today. But it could happen tomorrow. You just never know. I know you’re looking forward to staying informed. Right? Bated breath. Etc.) And while this gateleg table, courtesy of Martha Stewart, isn’t exactly beautiful (Martha, Martha, Martha, so unlike you! You’ve let me down, babe), it meets my budget requirements. It also looks like it would be easy to use for cutting. And Beloved Hubby can build it to suit, which means taller than 30 inches. What do you think? Any experience with this design, wise sewers? You can view a detailed description by clicking here: http://www.marthastewart.com/article/gate-leg-sewing-table. I think I'd like His Bertness to build mine counter height. Tell me whatcha think. Please. Bated breath. Etc. Really.

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.

I'd throw up both my hands and holler, but I'm too tired August 2, 2008 18:01 6 Comments

I thought I would be excited. I thought I would be gleeful. I thought I would be exultant. I thought I would be skipping around the house with joy. Dancing on the ceiling in Christian Louboutins. I thought. Oh. Yes. I thought.
But what I am is tired. Exhausted. It took me 3 hours and 50 minutes to iron my (admittedly) cheap cotton muslin and cut it out. That's, yes, three hours and 50 minutes to cut out my simple 5-piece pattern and iron my fabric. You understood. Your comprehension is there. Gold star. (Oh how I love Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. And how.) And I wanna show, I wanna show my appreciation . . .
Yes, that's 5 pieces. And, no, they were not easy. Thank goodness there was no chicken involved.
I did learn some things. The bed is not a good place to cut out a pattern. I repeat: The bed is not a good place to cut out a pattern. Not even when simply used as the support for a cheesy cardboard cutting board. Too wide. Much. The sewing books are right. Go figure.
And there must be something better than my ancient Dritz cutting board, which I've had since I was a teen. It's not stable. It skitters about like a pine needle on a windy day. Further, pins and cardboard don't mix. They’re not exactly oil and water. But still. And no lookin’ back for us . . .
I also learned that I do indeed need a better iron than our little Black & Decker. It does not do the job. Not even close. Even after an hour-and-a-half of ironing. (I watched both the CBS and NBC evening news. Oh, sweetie, I am so well-informed. Yes. There is still tea in China.) But, alas, my fabric still has wrinkles. Despite sprinkling liberally with water. Despite steam, pitifully weak though it was.
And I learned that sometimes stopping and doing a few yoga poses is a good thing. A very good thing. Excellent panacea for the aching back that leaning over the bed can cause. Especially the reclining hero and child’s poses. They give one the strength to go on. I highly recommend them. Keep that yoga mat close by when sewing. This I have learned.
But I do have a question. Or two. So, most knowledgeable dressmakers, answer. Please. After all, I want to be able to wear this frock. Not ship it off to Goodwill with the discarded humidifier and old true crime books.
1. I seem to be unable to cut a smooth line. (And my teacher was so proud of me back in kindergarten, because I had a natural gift for that. A talent lost. Or misplaced. Kleenex, please.) Will those little jags spoil the finished garment, or muslin in this case?
2. I also went inside the lines a couple of times. (And this so disappoints me when I am inspecting patterns for The Blue Gardenia http://www.thebluegardenia.com. Careless seamstress, I have been known to mutter. More than once. More than twice. More than three times, in fact.) Is my muslin ruined? Must I start over? Please say no. Puhleeze. My lower back screams in agony at the thought. Loudly. Insistently.
So. Let me know your thoughts. Share, please. Please. I intend to stitch this up tomorrow. If I finish my paperwork, that is. I hate paperwork. Ugh. Ugh. Makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands . . . Drat. Drat squared.
Fingers crossed. Send those positive thoughts my way. And all that.

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.

Hit the road, leaky roof & slipshod contractors. Now. July 29, 2008 19:49 1 Comment

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I have thrown up my hands. I am done. Done. Really.

Recall the leak we had way back when (I exaggerate) during The Bathroom Drama? When His Bertness thought the leak was caused by a toilet? Then when that proved not to be the case, he decided it was the gutter? Well. Then. Guess what? It wasn’t the gutter! No. Beloved hubby then decided it was the roof. Bingo. The third time is indeed the charm.

(Oh, is this the point where I beg your tolerance for going totally off topic? OK. Here goes. I had good home training. Please, darling, much appreciated readers, be patient. Let me vent. Let me share my woes. You do not have enough in your own life, I’m sure. You need mine to make your day complete.)

So. My job in this process was to call roofers for an estimate. The first 3 numbers I called (In business for 40 years! Family-owned for 20 years! Locally owned, locally operated, 27 years!) were disconnected. Out of business. Gone. Gone. Gone. I left messages at two others. One returned my call within 24 hours. I cannot tell you how rare this is in Prescott.

(Sewing is involved in this post. Really. Have faith. Keep reading.)

Now let me go back, dear readers, back, back, back, way back to two years ago when we had major rehab work done on the second floor. Nearly all of the roof was replaced. I thought the contractor did a lousy job on the roof at the time. The shingles on the roof edge stood straight out, like Louise Brooks’ bangs after a night of tossing and turning. Back then, way, way back then, I asked the contractor about this. He assured me in that way that only good ole boys in cowboy boots with radiant smiles and irresistible Lab pups can, that his crew would be back in the summer when the composition shingles were more malleable. Then, with the Arizona heat, it would be a cinch to arc the shingles. Knowing nothing about hip roofs, I believed him. Beloved hubby, knowing precious little more on this subject, thought it sounded plausible, too. Summer came. The roofers didn’t. I called. The story this time was that the shingles would eventually curve on their very own. The hard-working life of the shingle — I bet you didn't know. Again, hubby and I thought mmmm, sounds credible. We have lives. We got busy. We didn’t forget about the shingles, but they were a hassle we didn’t want to deal with. And guess what? The shingles still haven’t the slightest arc. They are as flat as land in southern Louisiana.

So. The new roofer showed up today. On time. Early, actually. This is so rare that he deserves a street with his name. He climbs up on our roof — a perilous task, since our house is perched on a hill. And he pronounces our roof in horrible shape, says the folks who did the roof did a lousy job, says we should file a complaint — and pronto — with the state. I am totally pissed. Totally. Overwhelmingly.

So, it was in this mood that I opened the Singer Sewing Book, copyright 1949, and saw this picture, optimistically cutlined Your Sewing Machine Makes Decorating Easy! (Exclamation mark mine all mine.) Ummmm emmmm. I believe 'em. But. Love the gray. Love the jolt of green. Love the slipcovers. Love them. Totally. And this book proposes that the reader make them. Is that preposterous or what? Completely. I say. How the heck do you make — all by yourself, without aid of an upholsterer — slipcovers that are so beautifully fitted? That look modern. Sleek. Tailored. Sophisticated yet inviting.

I thought about slipcovers. How fabulous they would look on our den sofa. How clean they would be— after all, I could wash them, every day if I chose. This would make Henry Jones, our Lab-Dane mix, as happy as a pig in mud. He lives on the sofa, and he loves fresh linen. So do I. Slipcovers. Clean. Sleek. Inviting. Baby, I was lost in the dream. Lost. Totally. Then, alas, reality intervened. Jarred my
brief slipcovered reverie. Because how could I possibly make slipcovers? I’m having a hard time with my muslin for a simple dress. As you know. I’ve cut out the pattern. I’ve marked it with Sharpies. And then, fear. Stark, immobilizing fear. Fear 10, action 1. Denise trapped. Caught in between.

So. Later, after a nap with His Bertness, I visited Posie Gets Cozy, a very, very pretty blog http://rosylittlethings.typepad.com/posie_gets_cozy/ and one that I have taken to visiting frequently, and what do I see but her living room, so clean, so lovely, so complete, with pets who double as adorable photo props. One doggie. One kitty. Not a slipcover in sight, but there are pillows she made herself, and gorgeous draperies (she probably made them herself, too). I want that. I do. Yesterday. Now. After all, as a songwriter once said: "time hurries by, we're here and gone." It's true. It is.

So. There you go. My day. Bobby Goren from L & O:CI seasons 1-4, save me. Save me from leaking roofs. Save me from careless contractors. Save me from myself. Quick. There's no time to waste. None. Because time hurries by. We're here and gone. Etc.

Vintage tips for not so vintage dressmakers July 28, 2008 16:59 5 Comments

All right. I’ve been reading today. Searching the books for more muslin tips. And books, of course, are the fount of knowledge. I know you agree. Right? At any rate, I want to share, dear readers, some of the fun tips — paraphrased, of course, because I am not only in a most languid mood, but The Closer comes on in 10 minutes — I learned especially for the beginning sewer, all courtesy of McCall’s Complete Book of Dressmaking, copyright 1951:

1. Shrink your material if it is cotton or wool.

2. If the material comes folded through the center, press out the fold.

3. Press the pattern.

4. Lay the material on a hard flat surface. Not on your bed, which is too soft. Besides, you might disturb a napping hubby. And that, my friends, can result in the sudden appearance of Crabby Appleton. Not pleasant. Not at all.

5. Keep your eye on the arrow, because it indicates the grain direction.

6. Pin along the lengthwise grain of the material. You get a truer cut that way.

7. Cut out or mark every notch. No cheating.

8. Mark all the lines shown on the pattern pieces. For instance, waistline, darts, top of sleeve.

9. Cut out the entire garment at one time. You can chowhound those Bunny Grahams later.

10. Be careful not to stretch the neckline, waistline, armhole or placket.

11. Pin the pieces together before you baste them.

12. Baste before you stitch.

13. After stitching, remove the bastings and press. Press. For professional results, you practically sew with an iron in one hand. Stitch. Press. Stitch. Press. You get the picture, right?

14. Take your time! Do not hurry. This is the best sewing advice anyone can give you. I have taken this particular tip to heart. In a big way. As you know. I am clutching it to my heart, and I am not letting it go. So there.

And here’s a surprise, for this novice, anyway. There is less work on the bodice of evening dresses. Know why? Because the bodice is negligible. And there are just long seams in the skirt. Hence, evening dresses are a good choice for beginners. That’s what Marian Corey, who penned this fine book, says. And would Ms. Corey lead us astray? I think not. I hope not. And there’s more: Cotton lace is a good choice for beginners! Who’d uh thunk it? And this pic from the book certainly proves cotton lace makes a very pretty, very elegant frock. Especially if you add a gorgeous waterfall corsage. And I would, of course, because Mr. Gardenia is all about gifting with flowers. And, natch, he loves red shoes. As do I. Especially the luscious tomato shade the model is wearing.

So, seasoned sewers, do share your opinions about Ms. Corey’s advice. We greenhorns await your responses breathlessly. If Ms. Corey is off the mark, we need to know. Now. Not after we ruin our fabric. Pretty please with red stilettos on the top. I thank you in advance. I do. I'd send you a hand-written note if The Closer wasn't coming on in 3 minutes.

I made my muslin in a past life, and then my dog ate it July 27, 2008 17:43 1 Comment

Simplicity 4237
It’s happened. My life today was so devoid of focus that I am writing about it. That dreaded and overused blog subject: What I Did Today. Yes, that is my topic. I'm not pulling your leg. Is that total, complete conceit or what? No need to answer that. I can do it for you. Yes. A loud, bellowing yes. But what is, is. And there ya go.

So, I was actually, once upon a time, going to tell you about my muslin. I was going to show it to you. See? Isn’t it pretty? Isn’t it the most lovely muslin you’ve ever seen? And so on and so on. But I got scared. Make that sca-a-a-y-errrd. Many syllables. Draw it out. Way out.

And what does a good Southern girl do when she’s sca-a-a-y-errrd? Well, she goes to church. And then, feeling somewhat uplifted, she goes to see a friend who sews. Someone conversant with that strange and intimidating language of pattern instructions. Someone who could interpret. Someone who could tell me whether I should cut facings when crafting a muslin. Someone who could reassure me that my chosen pattern, which I know y'all remember is Simplicity 2925, http://thebluegardenia.typepad.com/the_diary_of_the_blue_gar/2008/07/and-the-winner.html was indeed easy. Someone who was wearing a pair of slacks that were the most. Slightly updated Carole Lombard. Sassy yet comfortable. Slacks that she herself made from Simplicity 4237. Slacks that she assures me are very easy to make. We’ll see. I remain unconvinced. Ever so.

I could also tell you about the rest of my day: cooking potatoes freshly dug from a bud’s garden; learning about past life-regression from another friend (I told you I was blue, didn’t I?), and going to see the latest Batman movie (isn’t it grand that Morgan Freeman is working so much these days?). I could tell you I added fresh dill to the potatoes. I could tell you I’m considering past-life regression, something that a few months ago I would have considered as likely as serving a platter of wriggling earthworms at a dinner party. I could tell you I find the blond good guy in The Dark Knight as abrasive as a brand-new emery board. I could give you even more details about my day. I could. But I think I’ll moisturize my skin instead. And think about tomorrow. When perhaps I will be less scattered and most certainly have softer skin.

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.

Shameless plug: The patterns we've added, the places they'll go July 23, 2008 19:07

You like to sew. I know you do. Don’t hide it. And. And. I know I’ll like to sew eventually, too. I know I will. And what do you need to sew? At least, what do most of us need to sew? What do most of us Crave, Capital C? Outstanding patterns! I’ve just added many — I didn’t note how many, so no pop quizzes, please — but trust me, there are lots of brand-spankin’ new vintage pattern additions. A few of my favorites:

Dancing veggie apron, courtesy of those crazy 1940s McCall designers. This one is beyond cute, and it has mitts and towels, too! How’s that for stretching out your pattern dollars? And it has dancing veggies! Dancing veggies! Can you say witty? This apron can. Loudly.

1930s Du Barry evening gown or day dress that has a bias skirt — and you know how sexy they are, you know they are totally irresistible, totally — and it has those puffy short sleeves that are all the rage and — you knew I wasn’t going to stop there, didn’t you? — it has simple, yet different seaming details, the kind that make the frock really pop, pop, pop. It also has a bow belt, which I, frankly, would ditch, but, hey, bows aren’t my thing. Some people — like my ex-sister-in-law — love ‘em. She had more bows than there are blades of grass on a golf course. Probably still does. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Not a thing.

And there is a sexy Helen Rose suit with an hourglass shape. Form-fitting. Feminine. Don’t-mess-with-me powerful. Not a bow in sight. 1950s, natch. It’s gorgeous. It’s smart. It’s collectible. Can you live another day without it? I think not.

There are three Carol Horns, all special in that special Carol Horn way. Comfy. Edgy. Modern. There are three YSLs as well. I love Yves. Really. I do. If you want to go haute, if you want to go couture, you cannot go wrong with his fashion. Look at style goddess Catherine Deneuve. Yes. Indeed.

You’ll also find additions in Lingerie, Accessories and the 1920s section. And, as you know, new additions go at the beginning of each category, because our regulars find that makes it so much easier. And if you aren’t a BG regular, well, I want you to be one. You’ll be happy you are. We do take Paypal now for those of you who find that is the way to go.

Drop by and let those shopping demons hop, hop, hop! You deserve it. I know you do.

Flaws, flaws, more flaws, and one delicious dream July 22, 2008 12:51 1 Comment

OK. I suppose I shouldn’t blog when I’m thinking of Armand Assante because I forget things. Important things. Things that mar the look of a finished garment. Things like the lack of a snap at the neckline.

Things like poor placement of buttons. Both of these garments http://thebluegardenia.typepad.com/the_diary_of_the_blue_gar/2008/07/why-i-want-to-1.html have buttons placed right above the waistline, and they keep the belt from laying flat. This particular flaw is both uncomfortable and annoying. It inspires continuous fiddling with the belt and button.

Things like the unsightly puckers along the front closing of the blue and gray cashmere dress. (Learned readers, please tell me what causes this blight so that I may avoid it on my own garments.)

Things like cuffs that fall down. I assume the lazy cuff happens because the wrong interfacing is used. Yes? No? Tell me, because I do not want this to happen when I sew.

Things like the glaring gap at the hemline on the royal blue linen frock. Again, dear and ever so knowledgeable readers, how do I prevent this mistake?

I await your replies with anticipation. Breathless, natch.

On a brighter note, on a happier note, in some ways it pays to think of Mr. Assante right before bed. I dreamed about the very luscious him. It was, of course, as most dreams are, strange. Very. There was a marriage proposal. There was a phone call. There was a knock at the door. There was a bad man. There was a storm. There was an apartment with two walls of windows. There was a closet filled with clothes and boxes. There was no sex. None. Darn it. No scarf. No mambo. No sex. And there was a notable absence of a sewing machine. Mmmmmm. You figure it out, you Jungians you. I, for one, simply enjoyed it. I could have it enjoyed it more. Of course. But of the dream I will not complain. Of these two dresses, well, that's another matter. Entirely.

Why I want to learn to sew: Reasons 4 — 8 July 20, 2008 17:59 5 Comments

View this photo
This pic, of two dresses from my closet — yep, my very own — illustrates many reasons why I want to learn to sew. Shall I list them? You’re holding your breath until I do, right? Therefore, sharing is a life-saving gesture. So, here ya go. (I’m such a selfless heroine. Just leave my Girl Scout badge at will-call. I’ll pick it up later.)

4. I love this pattern. It’s sleek. It has the 1950s feel, yet it also seems modern. It’s Lucy meets Donna Karan. It’s comfortable. It twirls on the dance floor like a lazy Susan in the hands of a bored 2-year-old. A local dressmaker made the royal blue one, and I liked it so much that I wanted another. That brings us to . . .
5. The dressmaker — let’s call her Elouise — was apparently having a very bad day when she made the gray and blue version. Very bad indeed. The collar does not lay properly. The buttonholes are a mess. Really. Stringy. Most unprofessional. Even though the fabric is a yummy cotton cashmere, I rarely wear this one. Now, if I had made it myself . . . It would look even worse? Did you really say that? Hush! Hush, hush, hush. Keep those negative comments to yourself.

6. And a major perquisite of patterns: If you like the garment, you can make another. And another. And another. And so on. Which eventually makes the pattern a bargain, even if you could have bought a house in Nebraska for the same price. And then there are the tears you won’t shed when you wear out a favorite dress, because, of course, you can simply stitch up another. In the fabric of your choice. With the buttons of your choice. And the belt of your choice. You get my drift, I know. You are smart cookies. That's why you read this blog. You cannot hide your intelligence from me.
7. You can personalize the dress, and not just with fabric and buttons. You can do fun things like add horsehair to the hem if you’re a dancer. A little horsehair makes the skirt really fly. Totally out there. You could add sequins. Or beads. Or ric-rac. If that's your thing.
8. You're not likely to run into your dress on someone else at your favorite bistro. It's unique. It's yours alone. It will show who you really are.

And, of course, I am one stylish and classy female. And I am not hiding my light under any bushel. And that includes my sewing talents. No giggling. No sneering. Stop it. Stop it! Now this minute!

Oh, enough about sewing. Enough about patterns. Send in Armand Assante. I'm listening to Linda Ronstadt's Frenesi, one of my absolute all-time favorite albums, and it always reminds me of The Mambo Kings, which always reminds me of that fabulous dance with the scarf.
Yeeeeeoooooooowwww. Let me repeat that. Yeeeeeoooooooowwww. You can have Antonio Banderas. The dregs, I know. The very bottom of the barrel. Oh well. Suffer. I'll think of you while I rumba through my dreams with Mr. Assante. Wearing a dress I made myself. Beautifully.

You've been warned: Some progress. A lot of whining. July 19, 2008 20:36 1 Comment

Today, I did it. I took Labelladonna’s advice and pinned my chosen pattern, which you, learned and informed readers, know is Simplicity 2925, to my very own body. It appeared to fit perfectly. I, of course, am quite skeptical.

For the photo, however, I was ever so protective of you (yes, I am a sweetie, it's true) and pinned the pattern to a dress form. I did not want to make y’all shriek in horror and run from the computer covering your eyes at the sight of me in my undies — even though they are rather cute — and I got rid of my leotards in the 1990s. Besides, this isn’t an X-rated blog. This is a blog about one woman’s desire and fear about learning to sew. What is that saying about feel the fear and do it anyway? You know, I wouldn’t have the slightest fear — well, perhaps the tiniest shiver of apprehension — about swinging on a trapeze. Bring it on. I’m not scared of whooshing down a towering, spindly roller coaster. That is exhilarating. But give me a needle, a sewing machine and some tissue paper, and I almost freeze with the fear that I Will Fail. Fail, what an ugly word. Or worse, that the bobbin will jam.

Now, I know. There’s a learning curve. Few people turn out a garment worthy of YSL on the first try. Do they? (And if you did that, please, keep it to yourself. OK? I do not want to hear that right now. I do not want to hear about any dressmaking prodigies at the moment. If your first garment was a suit that Chanel herself would be glowing with pride over, and you made it, no less, at the innocent age of 3 and in an hour and a half at that, tell me later, OK? I repeat: I do not want to hear it right now. What I want to hear, what I need to hear, are Little Train That Could type things. Please. Think Pollyanna.)

I will think positively myself. I will channel Norman Vincent Peale. I will. Really. I will pluck those doubts like unwanted facial hairs. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. And so on. I can. Really. Don'cha think? It's going to be a gorgeous dress. Right? The compliments will pour like rain in Seattle. Right? Right?

Tweezers, anyone?

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.