tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-316129832024-03-04T19:52:13.226-09:00Becoming Marie AntoinetteOne woman's search for fame and fortune that does not include beheading or sleeping with men who don't brush their teeth.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-34314249127709869522014-05-29T21:02:00.000-08:002014-05-29T21:07:00.733-08:00Bringing this shit back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven't blogged for nearly two years. At least, I haven't written on this particular site on two years, and maybe now no one checks it anymore, and maybe I'm shouting into a fucking hurricane, but that's fine. I feel like shouting.<br />
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Friends, I'm riled up. I know I've touched on it before, <a href="http://www.becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2011_03_01_archive.html">chastising Zach Snyder</a> for being a shitty, misogynistic filmmaker who splashed the ugly power imbalance inherent in my beloved geek community onto 30 foot screens everywhere. I know I've told you about my indignance having to <a href="http://www.becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html">defend my choice of body art</a>. It's not really a secret that I think about this stuff, worry about this stuff, wonder how I teach my daughter to weather it, how I teach my son to combat it.<br />
<br />
This shit is the outside of enough. I am angry. I am nearly forty years old, and I have been fighting this shit for three decades. I am fucking tired of it.<br />
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The day after it hit the news that some jackass attacked twenty people in California because WOMEN, my mom and sister shared a thing on Facebook. It was one of those stupid Pinterest graphics, you know the ones: a pithy "inspirational" quote in some all caps font over a montage of filtered photographs of other people's children. This one read, "RAISING BOYS. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART." The pictures were of little boys doing mischievous things, borderline naughty things, things like getting covered in mud from head to toe, jumping off a rope swing, sticking a fork in an electrical socket, and holding hamburger buns up to their bare chests in an imitation of breasts. Things that make people shake their heads and chuckle, "Boys will be boys!" and go on about their merry way and then exclaim twenty years later, "I just don't understand! How could he have gotten this way? He must have been sick, SICK, to kill all those people while ranting at the top of his lungs about blond sluts who wouldn't fuck him!" I wanted to scream. Instead I took the very obvious, society-sanctioned course and... said nothing.<br />
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In one breath I tell my daughter that she is whole, strong, and complete and in another I am supposed to tell her that the fingertip rule at school is for skirts, not for shorts. In one breath I tell my son that he is a heart as well as a body, as well as a brain, and in the next I am supposed to advise him that the tears are for his ex-girlfriend to shed. He knows that girls owe him nothing, that there is no such thing as the friendzone. She knows that comics and building blocks are for everyone.<br />
But I have to repeat it constantly, drill it into them the way that I was once drilled about how to survive an atom bomb. I am swimming upstream. I am angry, and I am tired. I am sick of wanting to scream.<br />
<br />
Boys will be humans. Girls will be humans. Boys, most of them at any rate, will grow up to be men. Girls, most of them at any rate, will grow up to be women. We have to have each others' backs.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-44189016641991449502012-08-05T21:58:00.000-08:002012-08-05T21:58:52.184-08:00To the man I loveDear Z,<br />
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I know you don't read this anymore, because anything I've had to say to you for the past three and a half years I've turned to you and said aloud. For the past three and half years, you've been right by my side. I'm writing it anyway, because I have about three decades' worth of stuff to tell you, and you are past hearing me.<br />
<br />
The last time I wrote one of these letters, it was an apology. I bruised your already tender feelings even more by being unthinking, and I wanted - no, needed - to say sorry. I didn't intend this one to be an apology, too, but I have to start it off with one. I'm sorry I took you for granted. I got so used to you being a rock that I kind of forgot how crystalline your core is - like mine, I have to acknowledge. I see so many things about you that I have in myself, and it has given me comfort since the beginning. There are things which are alien to me, too, like your absolute insistence that you neither desire nor require love. I know better. I have seen you after soaking up the rain of love from me, my family, my community. I remember the tension and anger in every line of your body when you came to me, and I remember when I started to see it leak away, leaving a smiling, gentle, happy man in its absence. I know that the home we shared was precious to you, maybe more than you are willing to admit even to yourself. I told you a few days ago that I knew how terrifying it is to know that someone can see you with clarity that you can't turn on yourself, and I know you are worried I am going to use it as a weapon against you. I'm sorry that we never took the chance to ease all those fears. I am so sorry you never came to me.<br />
<br />
The crazy thing - and I mean it sounds dumb, it sounds like the sort of thing they would put in a book that had high heeled shoes on the cover - is that once I made peace with my own insecurities, I have never doubted you. Not once. Even when I was blue and swirling in darkness. Even when you threatened to walk out the night before our epic trip. I think it was a mistake then, and I think it's a mistake now. I say it because I have never personally known two people to do what we did - be the absolute best versions of ourselves we could be for each other. I believe to my toes that we are meant to be together to keep us straight in the world.<br />
<br />
This summer has been a motherfucker, that is for certain. It was so much - far too much, frankly - and I was overwhelmed, and I leaned on you really really hard without ever having a discussion about it. I took and took and took from you, and what I gave back wasn't much, and I know you burned out. I should have kissed you more. I should have reached for you all those times I really wanted to instead of letting you close in on yourself. I should have flung myself into your arms the second you walked into the room at the Prospector. I didn't because... I don't know why. Because I was afraid of being rejected. Because I was afraid it would feel like a bigger burden. Because the sheer magnitude of what I feel for you terrifies me, and I know it scares the shit out of you too, for different reasons.<br />
<br />
I am so tired of living my life in fear.<br />
<br />
I love you. The words can seem so trite, so I tried to show you every day how much you mean to me, and sometimes I wished how you showed me was clearer, but the fact is neither of us did a good enough job with saying those words. I've loved you since about three months from the day I met you. Maybe it didn't even take that long. I love you still. You are in a tiny circle, truly rarified company - the people I have chosen to be my family instead of having Fate fling them in my path (this is where I say, hi, mom! hugs to the sisters!) I want you, too. Right by my side.<br />
<br />
Bea misses you horribly. So does Jack, although he is less forthcoming. I miss you most of all.<br />
<br />
-s<br />
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<i>whenever i am doubtful, this reassures me you were meant for me</i></div>
<br />stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-26779891793957714692012-07-15T19:27:00.002-08:002012-07-15T19:27:53.349-08:00Now what?I am sitting the empty room that used to be my living room, in the spot that was my spot. I have sat in this spot thousands of times, and this is the last time. I feel like I am full of glass.<br />
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I managed to make it all the way through this whole last day in my home without a tear, until it was time for the Cap'n to go. I wasn't sad about his last walkthrough - though he was - I was sad because my ex is the most callous human being I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Two days after being made responsible for my felines, he's decided that they're too much to handle. This is because my cat with serious, chronic bowel issues which are treated with medication shit on his carpet. A cat with bowel issues had a bowel movement. Game over. Never mind that her issue isn't diarrhea, it's constipation, and that it's highly unusual that she had such loose stool, and that she's prone to dangerous dehydration if she's not carefully monitored. Never mind that she's been hospitalized with a needle in her vein for three days. Just tell me you want me to pay to clean your carpets and find a new place for my problem animals to live.<br />
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That was just the ugly cherry on this awful sundae of suck. I spent my day turning the spaces which two days ago were our sanctuaries back into boxes. I did it by inhaling noxious cleaning chemicals and having my hands immersed in water for about nine hours. I browbeat and bullied and coerced my sweet son and wonderful partner into doing the same. Z made trip after trip to our three (3!) storage units, uncomplainingly hauling the stone bunnies and half-filled notebooks that I couldn't leave behind. Why do we have three storage units? Because we still don't have a house. We don't have an apartment, a trailer, an RV, or a spot under the bridge. We have marvelous, caring friends, though, and a trip planned to Juneau - I said fuck it yesterday morning and booked it because there's no way I'm eating my kid's 15th birthday cake off someone else's plates - and we have a housesitting gig or two lined up. But no place to call our own. No place to tuck my bunnyrabbit in at night. No place to let my cats curl up behind my knees and rest.<br />
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I am really angry at my landlord for not seeing what it meant to ask us to leave in the middle of summer. I know it's not his job to make sure that we have a place to live, but we've been his tenants for eight years, minus two weeks, and I think we've been pretty good ones. We don't want to trade this lovely home for a two bedroom basement, and I'm angry because I feel like he drove us to a decision like that.<br />
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One of the first craft projects I did in this house was to decoupage the lightswitches. Gnomes in the Cap'n's room, peonies for the bath, a repro oil painting in the bedroom where I nursed my babe every night. I was going to take them with me, because nostalgia and all, but I decided to leave them. Maybe my landlord will see them and realize that we were not just his tenants, we were a family, and this was not just a holding cell until something else came along. It was our home.<br />
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I have to get up now, out of my spot, and unplug the router and walk out the door and not look back. in a minute, I will. In a minute.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-63342560927393152532012-07-03T19:08:00.002-08:002012-07-03T19:08:36.525-08:00Keep on swimmingI have tried to write this post so many times now I have lost count. Every time I dissolve into helpless tears, which I guess isn't an unusual situation, but it seems like the status quo these days rather than an exception.<br />
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On the Friday before Memorial Day, our landlord came to me and told me that the house we live in was being sold, and we had until July to move out. On top of the impossible task of finding a new place to live - Sitka being notoriously short on affordable decent housing, I have been dealing with the grief I feel over losing my home. Now, eleven days before I have to close the door forever, I am weeping every day and I have reached to point where I am putting every last thing I encounter into a box to save, because my heart is too sore to send any more memories away.<br />
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When we moved into this place eight years ago, I had only ever lived in one house longer than two years. When I was a child, we moved very often, a consequence of my mother being in the army and of her own inability to put down roots. I attended thirteen schools in my thirteen years of schooling and was homeschooled for half a year. I never knew what would survive one move to the next. I don't have my baby books, or the gourd lady my Grandmama brought us from Peru, or any of my favorite picture books from when I was a child. I don't have my prom shoes or my hand-embroidered baby blankets.All lost in the shuffle from place to place.<br />
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So when I started the monumental task of reducing the life I made for my children and me in this house to labelled boxes and a gargantuan pile destined for the garage sale, I was paralyzed at the idea of throwing any of this away. I still am. I know it sounds silly, but the abandoned blocks at the corners of my craft room were the happy hours my baby girl contented bounced in her chair while I sewed her brother's Christmas gift. The glittered stars were the magic of Santa that my son learned was in his heart, not in the North Pole. I don't want to sell the light-up shoes my mom bought to bribe her to ride her bike. I don't want to see the coveted Jedi robe on some other kid's arm. I know that when I send away the squeaky ladybug, that memory of opening a box from Lacy and finding them inside will be gone, too. I won't have the object to fire the memory.<br />
<br />
So I cry, and I find it impossible to part with another thing. I am so tired of trying to let this all go.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-30715304693377980682012-04-21T15:52:00.000-08:002012-04-21T15:52:43.262-08:00My house is full of teenage boys.Not right this second, because they are all raising mild havoc up at the high school where they belong, but I have been lurking in my bedroom sans foundation wear for like two days because I don't own my own living room right now. What I mean is, we are housing kids from out of town for Music Fest, and DAMN can four boys make a mess.<br />
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That is unfortunate for so many reasons, not the least of which being that I haven't finished a damn thing since the last blog post, and I am champing at the bit to make something, ANYTHING. (I will admit that I am nearly done with the manfriend's birthday present (his birthday was two weeks ago) but I can't bring myself to battle metallic embroidery floss for it.) I have gotten a load of compliments on the<a href="http://www.becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2012/03/am-i-too-old-to-wear-things-like-this.html"> striped skirt</a>, and I have been enjoying wearing it except for two things: it makes me feel really, really conspicuous and it seems to have to power to turn the weather from fine to awful. Seriously. I have put it on my body three times now, each of those times on a calm, fair morning, and by 2 in the afternoon, it has been blowing sideways, pelting rain, and colder by 10 degrees. Also, I bought a jade green shirt to wear it with, and the effect was rather more Christmassy than I like. Back to the drawing board.<br />
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I cut my hair again. Well, Casey cut my hair for me. The <a href="http://www.becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2006/11/so-i-was-trying-for-rock-star-chic.html">last time</a> it was this approximate cut I kinda hated it a lot, but it seems not so terrible this time. I can still set it, unlike last time, and I can nearly get the sides up in rolls, so that's okay. I am thinking seriously about doing something radical to it, but I am fucking vain about my hair, and a coward to boot.<br />
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So what's the point of this post, you ask? It's to ask your opinion! I have been thinking about making a new circle skirt for ages - since <a href="http://blog.caseybrowndesigns.com/">Casey</a> (not my hairdresser. a different one) had a sewalong for them last summer. I have a few, but they are all prints, and bordering on novelty prints at that. My question for you is: navy or black? My first impulse is to make a black one, since the vast majority of my wardrobe is black, and it seems like it would be pretty utilitarian that way. But there is something a little romantic and nautical about a navy one, no? Maybe I could scare up the elusive mustard cardigan to wear with it.<br />
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In conclusion: no new nothing. Cut my hairs. What color skirt?<br />
<br />
<br />stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-49700952497725604422012-03-31T14:21:00.001-08:002012-03-31T14:32:30.528-08:00Am I too old to wear things like this?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I finished this last week when I had a ton of time on hands. You will note that this post only contains a single project; that is because although I had an entire week off for spring break, I did no crafting to speak of beyond completing this skirt. You have no idea how much of an accomplishment that was, though. This skirt was nearly the end of this year-long experiment.<br />
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It all started with <a href="http://frocksandfroufrou.com/2011/07/do-it-yerself/">this blog post</a>. I just think everything about this outfit is fantastic. I love the circus-y quality that Lilli manages so effortlessly, and the tutorial seemed so <i>simple</i>. I could do it in a weekend! Oh, little did I know...</div>
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I ordered this fabric on Etsy, and got it in relatively short order. I just cut it in half down the length, intending to pleat the whole of it into a really full skirt. I was encouraged by comparing my measurements to Lilli's. Then I read the instructions .<br />
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Readers, math is not my best subject. No matter how many times I crunched those numbers, I could NOT figure out how on earth she managed to get her pleats flat and even and not overlapping one another. I couldn't make my pleats not lay on top of each other. Then Tilly made <i><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_308858911">this</a></i><a href="http://www.tillyandthebuttons.com/2012/02/thinking-in-shapes-skirt.html"> pleated skirt</a> and I got terribly discouraged. So easy! they declared. The stripes/chevrons make it idiot proof! Sewed up a dream! In an afternoon! Fuck it, I thought. I set it aside and cut the waistband. I was careful with my measuring and striped matching, since I had to piece it, and I interfaced it (I thought) properly. Um, wrong. I interfaced the front half of one piece and the back half of the other. I nearly cried, but instead I just forged on.<br />
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I cut a single pocket, because I didn't want the side zipper to interfere with the second one. Then I bravely lopped off enough from each skirt piece to make the pleating lay the way I wanted it to. I set to carefully pinning my admittedly MARVELOUS pocket into my neatly matched stripes, and sewed that son of a bitch up. I went to pin the pleats into the waistband and... It didn't fit. It was in, fact, about four inches too big. On a whim, I tried the waistband on around myself. Too small. Somehow, mysteriously, I had shrunk the waistband. SERIOUSLY FUCK IT. I walked away.</div>
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All of this occurred two weeks before my aforementioned time off. I bunched to damned thing up and threw it onto the pile on the dining room table. I spent some time <a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2012/03/i-am-better-at-thinking-them-up-than.html">making lamb shanks and embroidering</a> instead. Then on the day I wrote that last post, I gave myself a talking to. Ridiculous, I said. Quit being a baby. Quit being a quitter. And I picked up the stupid fucking skirt and finished it. </div>
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I fixed the tight waistband by adding two loops and two giant covered buttons. Yeah, I said two. Only one pictured, you ask? That's because a 4 inch wide band that sat on my natural waist tipped this right into weird <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lolita_fashion">EGL</a> territory. I am <i>certainly</i> too old for that foolishness. I didn't come to that conclusion until I had blundered my way through topstitching that monstrosity on, though. I was so over the whole process that I didn't even bother unpicking it. I just took a pair of scissors to it <i>right on the skirt</i>. I trimmed the waistband in half, turned the raw edges in, and topstitched THAT, too.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-waVlDeN1adI6NZ1PRXFBqQr8RUv0lG3WyCeazKI6MLA6v8ApTwzZqs88jMydwu7J6WjIShItPVD2LxxzTb63kVO-qLWxjDPQeQVsm6Hvv9PzLPhAmCtOTpBOrwi_ETIHeGBeA/s1600/stripedpocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil-waVlDeN1adI6NZ1PRXFBqQr8RUv0lG3WyCeazKI6MLA6v8ApTwzZqs88jMydwu7J6WjIShItPVD2LxxzTb63kVO-qLWxjDPQeQVsm6Hvv9PzLPhAmCtOTpBOrwi_ETIHeGBeA/s320/stripedpocket.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my stripey pocket! it's flannely!</td></tr>
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The last thing I did was finish the hem by hand. I had intended to turn it up further and blindstitch it with my machine, but I liked it better hitting me right at my knee, so I added some hem lace and catchstitched it by hand instead. It took me about an hour and a half to finish off the handstitching.</div>
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My weekend project skirt ended up taking about 16 hours all told, spread over the course of about a month. It's done, though, and I proudly declare it number 14. I like the way I styled it today, although the herring weather caught me off guard, and I was chilly. I just threw on a pair of black tights and a cardigan and moved the scarf to my throat, and it looks awesome right now, too. I want a turquoise or aqua or jade cardigan to wear it with, since I think the cobalt Lilli flaunts would come off a little jingoistic here (she's in New Zealand, I think.) Somehow I think this combo needs blue to set it off. What do you guys think?<br />
<br /></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-75160446573474586532012-03-30T18:16:00.002-08:002012-03-30T20:17:43.602-08:00I hope you didn't come for the cake.Chances are, if you are reading this, that you know me personally and have a better than passing acquaintance with my mercurial and capricious moods (and my propensity for tossing around $10 words like I bought them half off.) I have struggled all my life to master them, with varying degrees of success, and when they turn dark I struggle all the harder. The difficulty comes when the darkness intensifies and I can't master it; the ensuing waves of guilt and failure begin to force it all into a spiral that sometimes can be very hard to pull myself out of. Today is one of those days for me.<br />
<br />
I'm tapped.<br />
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I don't know why there are days when my eyes fill with tears that have no purpose or even cause. I don't know why I can't enjoy the company of my friends and family when this strikes, why I can't eat a meal in a room filled with people or have a discussion about gemstones with my seven year old. I don't know why I feel like screaming at the love of life to just leave me alone for a few hours, to get the hell away from me so I can weep over nothing in peace. I don't know why I can't even stand to pet my sweet, sick cat who spent three days in the hospital this week. I don't know why I can't just decide to be happy. All I know is that I am a dry well today, a pitch black echoing hole in the ground and I can't even make a decision about what to eat for dinner. That pisses me off. It exhausts me.<br /><br />I'm going to
show you the skirt I finished last week (back when I had the moxie to
care about things like resolutions.) Eventually, that is, but not
today. Today I'm going to lie on the couch and watch really shitty
t.v. and cry about feeling guilty for laying this all at your feet,
when all you came for was a picture of my latest doodad. I might
muster the courage to order takeout, or maybe I'll drag myself to the
store for frozen pizza, but then again maybe I'll just eat the rest
of the ice cream and whatever cheese there is. Tomorrow, I'll try
again.<br /><br />Keep checking back, okay?<br /><br /><br />
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<br />stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-63539731384321018432012-03-22T10:50:00.008-08:002012-03-22T14:40:10.633-08:00I am better at thinking them up than getting them doneI have been thinking about what the goal of this whole project really is. If it's finishing things, then I'm toast. If, however, it's STARTING things - well, then, I'm good to go. I've got a dress without a skirt and a skirt without a waistband both sitting next to my sewing machine, which is unfortunately on the table where we attempt to eat dinner every night. I've got a pattern cut and waiting that's been cut and waiting since LAST SUMMER. I had this noble idea that I was going to finish a whole outfit this week, which I have off because of spring break. I can barely get my dishes washed and the recycling out of the damn house.<br /><br />In spite of all this, I have accomplished a few things that I am going to let stand towards my total. First and foremost, I don't have pictures of the cooking things because I don't have five hands. So you'll have to imagine the St. Paddy's dinner I made: braised lamb shanks with pan sauce, tatties and neeps (mashed potatoes and turnips with cream), whole wheat soda bread, and not-quite-Carbomb cupcakes. These last were not-quite because I don't keep Irish cream liqueur in the house (I will consume it like I eat popcorn - absentmindedly in a single sitting) so the frosting was just whiskey buttercream. But I think that's worth #'s 9 and 10, at least - for dinner and dessert, right? I had to try a couple new techniques - I've never braised anything bone-in before. And the cupcakes had a new ganache. To top it all off, even though it was Saturday and I was off all day, I am not terribly efficient while cooking, and I gave myself a goal of finishing it all before 5 p.m. because we had tickets to a show that started at 7. I was done by 5:30 and we made it to to our seats with time to spare.<br /><br />I called finished on the postcard project even though I didn't finish it. The last week slid right past me, and then another week, and once we were solidly into March I figured it wasn't really worth it anymore. Still, since week 3 was all handpainted cards, I decided a pat on the back was still in order. Postcard project is officially number 11, and my apologies to the seven who never received their final card. By far the nicest payoff for this particular project was getting a postcard back from C., who lauded the idea while she visited at the beginning of February.<br /><br />And now onto the things I DID do!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8b9I1oM9uaNEdAERW4MYXuUyOjXBh64VBFARXV8SETXwSPLYKZazCufPOvJgAsQm0bPxn560R4O7JDVDXCma1_kA3B_Dnk4JZwx_6Kcb9O1kol0LbXO_2eBFs2_5gPaht0URT6w/s1600/beasdressfull.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8b9I1oM9uaNEdAERW4MYXuUyOjXBh64VBFARXV8SETXwSPLYKZazCufPOvJgAsQm0bPxn560R4O7JDVDXCma1_kA3B_Dnk4JZwx_6Kcb9O1kol0LbXO_2eBFs2_5gPaht0URT6w/s320/beasdressfull.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722800727327501554" border="0" /></a><br />I have had this Western style dress for HRH for about a year and half, always with the intention of embroidering it. When I bought it, it was two and half sizes too big. Now it's verging on uh-oh, maybe you should wear that before we have to send it back from whence it came (the White E for anyone who's interested.)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ZZ4bnJndWKkmuuE5p1gtUSOpzN6OL86xc6W3E8lyV_HcoYdU1ExthPTWlt1dY1PpWci4jcy_X995kN14JOoYA73PPltpOCf5e9tmTdwQyC-ud0MtG6kpOaD7DT0A2DZWrOFKxQ/s1600/beasdress.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ZZ4bnJndWKkmuuE5p1gtUSOpzN6OL86xc6W3E8lyV_HcoYdU1ExthPTWlt1dY1PpWci4jcy_X995kN14JOoYA73PPltpOCf5e9tmTdwQyC-ud0MtG6kpOaD7DT0A2DZWrOFKxQ/s320/beasdress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722800705427473778" border="0" /></a><br />I did the roses on the front first. I don't love the leaves on these ones, but at least I got them even.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc-9YubJIoGXPSWi4l-WEH8buvEJaUgqfn7jTXv8VFXHzfYo74eLtpU0Uuj0FUr-wlYSugyhaN9XH9aDQdO3D16Az0eFcBD99wd1TtQr7BWroRnYVPPEs6vzZpPC2w-WKyXMsPcQ/s1600/beasdressback.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc-9YubJIoGXPSWi4l-WEH8buvEJaUgqfn7jTXv8VFXHzfYo74eLtpU0Uuj0FUr-wlYSugyhaN9XH9aDQdO3D16Az0eFcBD99wd1TtQr7BWroRnYVPPEs6vzZpPC2w-WKyXMsPcQ/s320/beasdressback.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722800711140306178" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I asked the girl what she wanted on the back, and told her more roses were already in the works. She requested a butterfly. I spent about a day looking around on the Internet for one that I liked, then I spent another two or three hours getting the layout of this just right. The metallic thread I used for the body of the butterfly is evil, and looks wonky, and you will notice that I managed to stitch the whole thing askew, but all in all, I like the way this came out.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM1QRtSodopHFjL-_5B1_JuQaiRJMtF61O2h7MAI7nNGj9l9tvwRoDQHLgC164f0euhFpBiVt453yyBDCaw2-CMHqlwrUSjPGIJOPro4sk58WEOu9nsEzJWdBI7M4-5cagjlX2A/s1600/beasdressclose.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinM1QRtSodopHFjL-_5B1_JuQaiRJMtF61O2h7MAI7nNGj9l9tvwRoDQHLgC164f0euhFpBiVt453yyBDCaw2-CMHqlwrUSjPGIJOPro4sk58WEOu9nsEzJWdBI7M4-5cagjlX2A/s320/beasdressclose.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722800718588227362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">everything in my house is covered in cat hair<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I feel like I get a little bit better with every stitching project I do. For the embroidery nerds out there, I like stem stitch the best for outlining and I am less afraid of satin stitch than I was. I used a tiny bit of backstitch to outline the upper wing of the butterfly, but that's it. Amazing what you can accomplish with a limited repertoire. And that seals up 12.<br /><br />Finally, it's boring, but I might be proudest of this:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuZ7-n2lk_ik7wxCruycd82v_MQPXHizuhll-UvLHAR21QPp2TYejl7kk4IoAq2CvMNCyAmfd8NiySPK8kqyScVtsvb6dWV-JeOiwtkIiddN9FE34Q-4w9_a3_J5hcbMLVZyj1w/s1600/emborg1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFuZ7-n2lk_ik7wxCruycd82v_MQPXHizuhll-UvLHAR21QPp2TYejl7kk4IoAq2CvMNCyAmfd8NiySPK8kqyScVtsvb6dWV-JeOiwtkIiddN9FE34Q-4w9_a3_J5hcbMLVZyj1w/s320/emborg1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722800729712767650" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, those are Ziploc freezer bags. It took my two episodes of Downton Abbey to cut those to size, triple tape the ends, punch appropriate holes, and get them in this binder, which is also from the White E. I wish they didn't have the logo on the front, but I can still see the patterns ok:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTGaCHD4bOsuZBkkeODbygXNjLyOrPhfBuHzUZcmnoeE4JvEpzTfHaqroTVj8cgD0p8y8HRVa-66W5ucUMDazqPzpx1pj4iyB9wWa3foLCT3d5_IhR6RX2NGwK9RKtQcJSWv24g/s1600/emborg2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTGaCHD4bOsuZBkkeODbygXNjLyOrPhfBuHzUZcmnoeE4JvEpzTfHaqroTVj8cgD0p8y8HRVa-66W5ucUMDazqPzpx1pj4iyB9wWa3foLCT3d5_IhR6RX2NGwK9RKtQcJSWv24g/s320/emborg2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722801438281862818" border="0" /></a><br />Eventually I want to have a separate Ziploc for each of my transfers, but I just got a few new ones and they are currently doubled up until I get another Downton Abbey disc from Netflix and so have something to occupy my head while I do the utterly numbing cut, tape, punch, fill.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02euAmLkWFOhk6_re5Ev9sjCKsxOPbQ_A1Iv7MYlLLKgKMbDkZtlfZQ_zsrFHR7yyK4CHgpXKO4iCyXjmm1hloenzedhXnma6sOUX4qnWhtLP3_sAZ7OGj8TwSkxmaWRhONSQng/s1600/emborg3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg02euAmLkWFOhk6_re5Ev9sjCKsxOPbQ_A1Iv7MYlLLKgKMbDkZtlfZQ_zsrFHR7yyK4CHgpXKO4iCyXjmm1hloenzedhXnma6sOUX4qnWhtLP3_sAZ7OGj8TwSkxmaWRhONSQng/s320/emborg3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722801441722174002" border="0" /></a><br />For the PDF patterns I got plastic sleeves. I don't think I'll even have to take them out to trace, which is a bonus. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Y3uwPNxYpbbWnwziheG2MVrN0FYw0JGvpw1m_HtrPhTYyugh93ypORompO4bmCU4nQBnM0HnshouWbp8PvKrVkt-sgUhfVIzr7MMJUbHe-dak4iFaG73DKfAiEXKahXvH6A39w/s1600/emborg4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Y3uwPNxYpbbWnwziheG2MVrN0FYw0JGvpw1m_HtrPhTYyugh93ypORompO4bmCU4nQBnM0HnshouWbp8PvKrVkt-sgUhfVIzr7MMJUbHe-dak4iFaG73DKfAiEXKahXvH6A39w/s320/emborg4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722801445919949138" border="0" /></a><br />Yesterday HRH and I went to buy a new hoop - I needed a huge one for a delusion of grandeur that I am sure will not see completion - and HRH wanted to buy some new floss. I pointed out that I always just end up buying the same ones, and she implied maybe I could do something about that, like writing down the ones I have so I can get new ones that I don't. Coincidentally, when I got my newest patterns, they sent a DMC order sheet with all the colors they make conveniently organized by color number. It was a simple matter this morning to sit down with the order sheet and my floss box and mark which ones I have. I slipped it, too, into a plastic sleeve, and now I can pop it out and bring it with me when I get the urge to buy new colors. Like, always.<br /><br />This marvel of organization (shut up, it's not something that comes naturally to me!) is my lucky 13, folks. That's a quarter of the way there!<br /><br />Not affliated, of course, because why would I be?, but I'mma drop big props to the awesome places I get my patterns: I'm sure you all know about<a href="http://www.sublimestitching.com/"> Sublime Stitching</a>, and probably also <a href="http://www.colonialpatterns.com/index.php">Colonial Patterns</a> (Aunt Martha and the new Stitchers Revolution), but I'm also enamored of <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/SewLovelyEmbroidery">Sew Lovely Embroidery</a> and <a href="http://www.urbanthreads.com/">Urban Threads</a>. I wish I could remember where the butterfly came from so I could give credit there, too.<br /><br />That's it for now, kiddies. Hopefully I'll have something else fab for you really soon!stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-61842785616410938462012-02-18T10:06:00.004-09:002012-02-18T11:01:45.227-09:00I'm totally counting them.So I finally figured out that weekly updates might be a bit beyond me. This is mostly due to my crippling laziness, I think. I HAVE been working on things - the very things referenced in the title of this post! - but the whole getting out the camera and shooting pictures and logging onto the Internet while avoiding the allure of adorable cats or beautiful vintage frocks or (Deity save us all) PINTEREST is waylaid by logging onto the Internet and NOT avoiding said seductions. Now you get a wrap-up post! Aren't you lucky.<br /><br />I have decided to add a few rules to this self-challenge, mostly so that I spend more time creating and less time flagellating myself over how far along I'm NOT. At first I wasn't going to count baking or cooking projects, but the Valentine's Day extravaganza of four dozen sugar cookies flooded and sprinkled for the 2nd grade sugarpalooza made me change my mind. So the sugar cookies count. So does the heart shaped pizza we had for dinner, and the chocolate fondue we had for dessert. I don't have pictures of those. I was too busy trying to keep the 2nd grader in question from covering everything in the house - primarily the felines and me, her own mother - in red royal icing and/or warm ganache. But those count for my 3,4,&5 out of 52.<br /><br />I also wasn't going to count finishing projects that were started before the first of the year. But I needed the embroidery hoop that was sitting on the last of this pillowcase to start a different project, and these have been 75% done since I took my children to California (ahem. in fall of 2010). It took the work of one evening to complete them. And then I decided to cut myself some slack. UFOs need love, too! 6/52.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XY1O1h8bTVIH4dAwL2gjyizc25ka7bqXTb-_5wnSaaCI-HBStui_kD9hunqQQ1EapzL_H7bBSTAsk30n8FeffmoBP8Os374Db20tb3iO5y8PbZ7UkBhOfTY01x_OfMqsGPRfYA/s1600/hiznherz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XY1O1h8bTVIH4dAwL2gjyizc25ka7bqXTb-_5wnSaaCI-HBStui_kD9hunqQQ1EapzL_H7bBSTAsk30n8FeffmoBP8Os374Db20tb3iO5y8PbZ7UkBhOfTY01x_OfMqsGPRfYA/s320/hiznherz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710564368076014866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">the dude zombie is mine pillowcase, the lady is Z's<br /></span></div><br />Then I thought that the cards I made for Valentine's Day for the kiddoes shouldn't count because... I don't know why really. Because I'm dumb, and this is exactly the sort of thing I am trying to stop doing. Of course they count. I only have a picture of the Cap'n's, because HRH is using hers as a bookmark. Hers is, of course, the more amusing of the two.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2loytFmiJWaDldRsUYK44lqTmVyXo0NQs4xtEd2g22A6YfzqTZNPizVzdtHBaoZpp_WpS4SwGtb5uPXUSZU2pcQT07fSV32O0NydXEGIm0v0p4w_1PN0m_UvRUo7SpLwmZAVow/s1600/P2180360.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq2loytFmiJWaDldRsUYK44lqTmVyXo0NQs4xtEd2g22A6YfzqTZNPizVzdtHBaoZpp_WpS4SwGtb5uPXUSZU2pcQT07fSV32O0NydXEGIm0v0p4w_1PN0m_UvRUo7SpLwmZAVow/s320/P2180360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710564373449699346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">the other card featured a dinosaur and the poem:"roses are red, violets are blue, i'm really glad you're not a Tyrannosaurus Rex because it'd be super hard to hug you with those tiny arms." yes, i know i'm an epic poet.<br /></span></div><br /><br />Valentine's also brought a request for special headgear for the princess (An aside: I use this term derisively, because I really, really, REALLY want to not raise an awful entitled mess of a girl. She's not actually very princessy, though, to my everlasting gratitude, and as long as they stay requests instead of demands, I don't think giving in to a hair doodad now and then is a big deal.) I made her a quick headband with glitter craft foam and hot glue. I'll let the cards be one project, and that makes 7 &8.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTU4KR78-q4v3Pbhyf6hg-mhn9jK1d944jmZH5MlpQfbVTLpuCX03ooLXQuw7MJryeM7E2jniRC_AwLjYsPMvD4QEJC51Wp3aKuJfrMUM1bjZP-Hwu42uHeU4qcjl30-vH61hqw/s1600/heartsheadband.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTU4KR78-q4v3Pbhyf6hg-mhn9jK1d944jmZH5MlpQfbVTLpuCX03ooLXQuw7MJryeM7E2jniRC_AwLjYsPMvD4QEJC51Wp3aKuJfrMUM1bjZP-Hwu42uHeU4qcjl30-vH61hqw/s320/heartsheadband.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710564362486698546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">this ffffffabulous picture is courtesy of my aforementioned crippling laziness.<br /></span></div><br />The one place I'm failing MISERABLY is my February postcard project. A fatal combination of working on a day off, a holiday, and then a debilitating cold just knocked me right off track. I am planning to do last week's and this week's both today and hopefully hit the reset button.<br /><br />Lastly, I have been obsessed with <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/wickedminky">these pieces from Wicked Minky</a> on Etsy. I wanted to make an homage piece out of shrink plastic, but I have been having a tough time with it. The plastic is... really shrinky. They are less chest piece sized than hidden-behind-the-ear sized. I am still going to string them up into a necklace after they finish drying because I spent a long time on them. Then I will probably just break down and buy one of the fabulous chest piece necklaces from her.<br /><br />Not bad, huh? I'm better than caught up! I'm AHEAD! I can just slack off for the next two weeks!<br /><br />No? Sigh. See you soon, then.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-60834019360539043902012-02-04T12:02:00.004-09:002012-02-04T13:00:51.240-09:00I'm better at crafting...than I am at blogging, apparently. I really have been working on projects (although finishing them is, as always, the bane of my existence), but because they were all "in-process" rather than what I like to call "done" I figured I would wait until I actually had something to show for all my hard work.<br /><br />I got lots of great Christmas presents this year. Seriously, my loved ones spoiled me rotten with the types of things they knew I would adore. My sweet son, told I needed new earbuds, bought me ones emblazoned with Kermit the Frog eyes. My manfriend (there has GOT to be a better term for this. No joke.) showered me with coelocanths and new bass string and embroidery patterns and an antique banjolele. And the delightful Ms. S. got me<a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/71442712/buddy-holly-calavera-limited-edition?ref=sr_gallery_1&sref=&ga_search_submit=&ga_search_query=sugar+skull+buddy+holly&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=handmade&ga_facet=handmade"> this</a>. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. It need a frame worthy of it, though. S. couldn't find one she thought was suitable, and told me she'd leave it up to me. She mentioned that she thought that a Mexican folkart style one would be perfect.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ81ExLptW6l_WwpQp1RNFEiovdDT-Me2bIh-njw9LW8Y4Wl7td77HVnzxDDZty9RHByJOa1s_nuEe1KfU8Pl-fS7kDJ6oOL42mFkq9FijaJQN4clpUejT4KDOHIq2d1ZvDLwsIw/s1600/BuddyOfrenda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ81ExLptW6l_WwpQp1RNFEiovdDT-Me2bIh-njw9LW8Y4Wl7td77HVnzxDDZty9RHByJOa1s_nuEe1KfU8Pl-fS7kDJ6oOL42mFkq9FijaJQN4clpUejT4KDOHIq2d1ZvDLwsIw/s320/BuddyOfrenda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705391067840019618" border="0" /></a>So I made this one.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I got the frame at the White Elephant on a half-price day, so I think I paid $0.50 for it. I also got Dolly Parton's greatest hits on vinyl that day, but that's neither here nor there. I took the time to sand the frame, which generally I am far to impatient to do. Good thing I had a new Dolly Parton record to get me through! It also took me two Wanda Jackson records, all of Willie Nelson's Red-Headed Stranger, The Stray Cat's Rant 'n' Rave, and the first half of the first side of Kenny Rogers' The Gambler. That is a TERRIBLE album.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It took me a few days to decide what color I wanted the frame itself to be, so in the meantime, I took out my stash of glitter craft foam - an obsession begun when I was turning HRH into a comic book character for Halloween - and began cutting out a sacred heart. Well, first, I spent about seventeen gazillion hours looking at Mexican folkart online and<a href="http://pinterest.com/stellaastro/"> pinning</a> the shit out of it. THEN I cut a sacred heart of glittery craft foam. And then I decided that it looked cheese-tastic and faintly commercial, so I painstakingly drew and cut a Shure-55 style mic head to paste over it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0F5nWmzWDIcpbigcWdzYz6hJG-2WLcNFOwiaSE_BK-_AXExpFFanm_w3pWYUsFqZwDR9nQwwHs9dM4gFTqkSXtGrvb1o4uTOSDSx6Zj_HjchWhz4PuuNrZB31conbrflcs_IR5g/s1600/sacredmic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0F5nWmzWDIcpbigcWdzYz6hJG-2WLcNFOwiaSE_BK-_AXExpFFanm_w3pWYUsFqZwDR9nQwwHs9dM4gFTqkSXtGrvb1o4uTOSDSx6Zj_HjchWhz4PuuNrZB31conbrflcs_IR5g/s320/sacredmic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705391069560403698" border="0" /></a></div></div></div><br />Once that was done I decided to match the color of the Gocco print in the paint and did the whole damn thing twice over in what my son referred to as TARDIS blue. There are a startling number of items in my house that are precisely this shade of cobalt.<br /><br />The next conundrum was what to use for embellishment. I had chosen the deep frame specifically because of the possibilities of gluing weird shit on and calling it art. What weird shit, though? I loved the idea of bottlecaps, so I charged Zed with the task of bringing me home some. I found the perfect 45 record clipart on Etsy (from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/UncommonARTicles?section_id=6411420">here</a>)but couldn't figure out how to make my ancient and cranky Macbook resize it. So I just used the label portions covered with these awesome epoxy stickers that were made just to fit inside a bottlecap. Then I used fine black glitter glue around the edge and into the ridges. I wish I had flattened the caps first, but I didn't realize I wanted to until they were already glued to the frame. Then I liberally interspersed the bottlecaps with star-shaped and regular tiny sequins. I went back on forth on the idea of adding the flowers, but ultimately decided it seemed more finished with them. Then I hung that bitch on the wall right next to my front door. I can't stop grinning when I look at it.<br /><br />Bam! Two finished! It only took me five weeks! Oy...<br /><br />I did a good job working on a great project I'm excited about, though. I decided to send 28 handmade postcards in the month of February - yes, I know this is a leap year, don't judge - but instead of sending them all to one person, I went with seven friend each receiving a postcard from me that I mail every Friday this month. I put the first batch in the mail yesterday. I was too excited to mail them to take pictures, because I'm super lame. I won't count this project finished until the last seven cards reach their destinations, and I hope that the friends I chose like being a part of my year-long adventure.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">That's it til next time, mes petites choux. I have a question, though. Would you rather I updated no matter the status of my various projects, or do you prefer seeing the destination rather than the journey? Also, how on EARTH did that Smilodon drag that enormous coelocanth out of the ocean's depths?<br /><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNMbPJnvD6bk_llF6y_kHWYt4Er41DmUllkCXOPhfPwLc-ahAMFUY9CmfXe5lF56k-tiamVPyGo8A4QTbGRbtJbCw8n4J4DZqHNdVHPKdsnZZazUiKm_rCU1jPWR5PPaDhMSNBQ/s1600/epic+battle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUNMbPJnvD6bk_llF6y_kHWYt4Er41DmUllkCXOPhfPwLc-ahAMFUY9CmfXe5lF56k-tiamVPyGo8A4QTbGRbtJbCw8n4J4DZqHNdVHPKdsnZZazUiKm_rCU1jPWR5PPaDhMSNBQ/s320/epic+battle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705401825915809682" border="0" /></a>Have I mentioned how dearly I adore the man who bought these for me?<br /></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-51279748169260613972012-01-14T13:00:00.004-09:002012-01-14T13:44:53.132-09:00A new leaf!So I've become obsessed with reading all these sewing blogs lately. It's ridiculous - I've starting reading like twenty a week or something! I tell myself it's because I find it inspiring, but the fact is that I'm just super nosey and I love watching other people's creative processes.<br /><br />The thing is, though, that right when I hit the depths of creation for Christmas this year, I realized that I have stopped documenting my own creative process, and that somehow in my mind I started valuing my own work less. I had few moments of panic in the week before the holiday when I was convinced that my gifts were somehow unworthy, that my effort in their creation <span style="font-style: italic;">devalued</span> them. I ended up buying more presents in an attempt to offset the paltry nature of what I had made. Can you spot the problem with this, dear reader? Can you see where my reasoning went horribly awry? I spent dozens of hours stitching love into every inch of all these different project - a fez for the Cap'n, a sewing kit and new doll clothes for HRH, a bespoke amp cover for Z - and my heart was convinced that that meant less than a $25 videogame. I didn't even bother to take pictures of these things.<br /><br />New Year's rolled around, and as you probably know, <a href="http://www.becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2009/01/resolute.html">making resolutions is not really in my nature.</a> This year, though, it feels like I need to give myself a chance to treat myself and my work with the respect it is due. In that spirit, I am going to start - and try to finish, though we all know the outcome of that already - a project every week for the whole year, for a total of 52 by December 31, 2012. AND - this is important - I am going to get a picture and write a little blog post so that I can't hide whatever feeble light I have under the proverbial bushel.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I have finished the first one, and I am impatient to post it, even though the person it's intended for hasn't seen it yet. Consider this a warning, La Fabulous: if you look now, you'll ruin one of your Christmas pressies. Also, this is why your package was so damn late going in the mail.<br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBBS2CgIawdqE8kk5Pn2oQbs1h958RLXUqpnig_CEKyKsHAf0lOlIwd1pT6H1CH-NM3c95VefK3C4t8zEosSq81pLxmF2BGmd_ph1QilR_8Kf3j4KKR4oOzwDT3kHTNfX-DtmOA/s1600/scarflette.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBBS2CgIawdqE8kk5Pn2oQbs1h958RLXUqpnig_CEKyKsHAf0lOlIwd1pT6H1CH-NM3c95VefK3C4t8zEosSq81pLxmF2BGmd_ph1QilR_8Kf3j4KKR4oOzwDT3kHTNfX-DtmOA/s320/scarflette.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697619205809076754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">this did not photograph as well as i'd hoped</span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Project numero uno accomplished, friends. I used some gorgeous yarn I'd been hoarding for a long, long time. It's a Japanese silk and wool blend, originally quite expensive, but I picked it up at the White E for well, White E prices. I only had a single skein of this deep olive color, and so my choices were limited. Scarflette it is, then. I also managed to teach myself a new crochet stitch. So there's that.<br /><br />I have started my second project already - another crochet scarf because it's freaking cold over here right now, and I can crochet while nestled under all the blankets on the couch while watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy again.<br /><br />I have lots of things I want to make and do and sew and embroider and so on and so forth. I have a friend who is into lomography, and who wants me to pick up the Holga I've been neglecting for three years. I want to sew a Western shirt to match my sugar skull skirt. I have ideas, and I think I've made good inroads into the motivation. You guys can help by cheering me on.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-61063136336583555242011-08-20T14:47:00.004-08:002011-08-20T15:43:15.163-08:00Here's a not-birth story for you
<br />I consider myself a birth professional, even though I don't work in that capacity very often. The one and only time I went to a convention for birth pros, I was given a test to see what kind of advocate I was: woman centric, baby centric, pair centric.
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<br />Guess which one I am?
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<br />I chose to pursue alternative woman-led birthing (as opposed to directed, medical birthing) while I was pregnant with my son, my first child. It was my first child but not my first pregnancy. I terminated my first pregnancy in the summer after my first year of college. I was 18 years old.
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<br />That summer was a crazy blur of bad choices. I had met my boyfriend, a stage actor from L.A. in the last few weeks of the spring semester. He had come up to fish and discovered he had miserable seasickness. At that point I was woefully inexperienced and painfully self-conscious, enough so that I didn't really believe that this very handsome boy could be interested in me or anything I had to offer. When summer rolled around, I moved into a house with Actor BF and some friends and tried to make ends meet with a (very short) string of ridiculous jobs I wasn't interested in, and whatever money got sent from home. I drank a lot and hung out with some amazing friends who kept me fed and mostly out of trouble. No one thought to remind inexperienced, self-conscious, loudly feminist me that I needed to Take Care Of Business instead of letting Actor BF do it. I never went on birth control, and at some drunken point, our poorly-realized plan of condom usage failed. By the end of summer, I had Urgent Business to Take Care Of.
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<br />We ferried to Bellingham, and he gave me $300 before dropping me off at Sea-Tac, where I used $99 of it for a MarkAir flight back to Denver. I was numb and disbelieving the whole time. Apparently we visited the Ketchikan mall and had dinner at a pizza joint. I know that only because of the sentence fragments I jotted in my poetry journal. I made it to Denver with only a borrowed backpack full of dirty clothes and a sense of shame. My sister picked me up and drove me to her house. The next day she helped me call the clinic, and two days later she took me to Glenwood Springs and gave me juice to wash the Valium down with. Then she brought me back again, held my hand while tears poured down my face, and bought me lunch that I couldn't eat. She never said a word that wasn't support or love. She told her husband I had a bad case of the stomach flu, probably from food poisoning. She told our mom I was better off on her couch, where she could bring me soup. She let me cry and cry, and two weeks later, got me back to Denver so I could catch a flight all the way back to Alaska where I could finish what I started. I wrote a few poems about it, cried a little bit more, told Actor BF to fuck off, as he really wasn't good enough for me. And then I moved on.
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<br />I mention this all now because I read a blog post this morning on, of all things, a sewing blog. A 60-something hippie type told the author of that blog about her repeat abortions, the first of which was in 1969. The blog author came home and wrote about the harrowing experience of hearing these stories, and expressed her disbelief that the woman who told them could truly be at peace with her decisions. The author spoke of her sadness for this woman's "aborted babies." She wondered how this woman's life would have been different if she'd chosen to birth those children. She honestly believed that woman's life would have been better.
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<br />I know how my life would have been different. I could enumerate the ways, but suffice it to say that it would NOT have been for the better. I do not regret not having a baby at the precious age of 18, when obviously I could barely care for MYSELF. I don't regret not having a child with an alcoholic that I didn't love. Not only do I not regret it, I applaud it as one of the few truly sensible decisions I have made in my life. On the rare occasion that I dwell on it for even a moment, I think, "Thank GOD."
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I have tried to write this not-birth story before, because I know that the stigma about abortion won't go away if we don't talk about it. I have found again and again that I was embarrassed to write it. But embarrassed about WHAT? I'm not ashamed that I made the choice I did. I'm not ashamed that I chose to go on and birth other children. I'm not ashamed to say I would have more if I weren't worried that this world can't hold them. Choosing to end that pregnancy gave me the strength to make other choices, ones that were crucial for me and my children. I'm not ashamed of that. The shame I mentioned earlier wasn't because of the abortion. The shame was because I prided myself on being too smarter than that. And I'm not ashamed to say that, either.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKU0GCe090_STD0GKYmo4oRIdJ3TsPG4wMMNk08LdjZbnEe_bGOdpEym_WRA5KPK93CCafNefXDV5OTaNErYvh2amegGoS9m_lUWRJhP20lem2Sju2NGKBm-gFW6tYmwFqDuQsg/s1600/halloween10.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKU0GCe090_STD0GKYmo4oRIdJ3TsPG4wMMNk08LdjZbnEe_bGOdpEym_WRA5KPK93CCafNefXDV5OTaNErYvh2amegGoS9m_lUWRJhP20lem2Sju2NGKBm-gFW6tYmwFqDuQsg/s320/halloween10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643086317428482946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">no regrets here, either</span>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKU0GCe090_STD0GKYmo4oRIdJ3TsPG4wMMNk08LdjZbnEe_bGOdpEym_WRA5KPK93CCafNefXDV5OTaNErYvh2amegGoS9m_lUWRJhP20lem2Sju2NGKBm-gFW6tYmwFqDuQsg/s1600/halloween10.jpg"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></a></div></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-42336010542521837982011-03-24T17:59:00.001-08:002011-03-24T17:59:00.605-08:00Another letter to a filmmaker who is screwing stuff upDear <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0811583/">Zack Snyder</a>,<br /><br />I really believe that you are a fanboy. You are camped out at 9:15 on Wednesday mornings outside your local shop to pick up the week's new issues. You bag and board anything and everything in case it might be of value some day. You know as much about obscure letterers and colorists from the '60's as baseball fanatics know about the Baltimore Orioles leftfieldsmen. I'm not doubting your geek pedigree. I know you too fucking well.<br /><br />You're the sniveling little shit who disparagingly asks me upon my arrival at said comic book store if I'm "looking for something in particular - a gift for a boyfriend, maybe?" You're the one who points me firmly in the direction of the Buffy comics when I say I want horror pulp (not that there is anything wrong with the Buffy comics, but they're not exactly Hack 'n' Slash, are they?) You follow me not-terribly-covertly around convention floors making comments about the fit of my Star Trek t-shirt. You are the idiot who insists on trying to rolling to seduce my very powerful, not-at-all sexy mage in a one-off D&D adventure.<br /><br />Here's the thing, Snyder. I don't much care for your movie-making. I think in your eagerness to make movies that are frame for frame reenactments of the comics they come from, you lose any desire to imbue your films with honesty or weight. It's frustrating when you do that to source material like<a href="http://www.tfaw.com/Profile/300-HC___4076"> Frank Miller's <span style="font-weight: bold;">300</span></a> and downright detrimental when it's something like <a href="http://www.tfaw.com/Profile/Watchmen-HC-Graphic-Novel___326804">Alan Moore's <span style="font-weight: bold;">Watchmen</span></a>. I don't know what graphic novel you were reading, but the Watchmen movie you made was NOT the Watchmen comic I read. The book was filled with fully-fleshed, complex characters with realistic motivations and emotional lives. Your movie? Not so much.<br /><br />And now you bring us <span style="font-weight: bold;">Sucker Punch</span>. On the surface, there is nothing about this film that I shouldn't like. It is filled with dragons and mechas and sword-wielding lovelies and Jon Hamm. But why, for the love of Firefly, must you make the female characters look like they fell face-first into a vat of Porn Spackle(tm)? And why must the entire story be predicated on the assault - implied SEXUAL assault - of a teenager? And why do you take incredibly talented actors like Carla Gugino and Jena Malone and force them to emote with their fake eyelashes? You first remove all the power and agency from Queen Gorgo and Silk Spectres I and II, forcing them into roles where the ONLY art they wield is sexual - the sword-wielding and high kicks are merely frames for their ridiculous costumes. Now you are intent on selling us a whole two hours of this disenfranchising nonsense.<br /><br />NEWSFLASH: We women live in a world that is fucking FULL of disenfranchising nonsense. We don't need it spoonfed to us in the guise of empowerment. Neither do our daughters, and just as importantly, neither do our sons. I want my budding geek son to not be the guy who chases girls out of the comic book shop, either directly with his nasty attitude or indirectly by insulting their intelligence and sensibilities with his complete ignorance of what makes a tough woman tough.<br /><br />Honestly, Snyder. Your take on female power makes me feel bite-ier than the <a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2009/05/still-ing-just-not-blogging-about-it.html">JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot.</a> That is saying something.<br /><br />Yours,<br />stella<br /><br />P.S. In case you have forgotten what sexy AND capable looks like:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmp4yppVf_ceiZElqJ2qZOaParzlvJyyqhl-p7kmHahsU1vhkUex11rGpbRPWwq8Xsq6MaEhJYAdo7qNtgqp2ADfqW-mYr6mkXgIzh5gOYy6HgDq5asB8Q4ysdn7-WF9E9Pwu2g/s1600/zoe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmp4yppVf_ceiZElqJ2qZOaParzlvJyyqhl-p7kmHahsU1vhkUex11rGpbRPWwq8Xsq6MaEhJYAdo7qNtgqp2ADfqW-mYr6mkXgIzh5gOYy6HgDq5asB8Q4ysdn7-WF9E9Pwu2g/s320/zoe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587830073834912514" border="0" /></a>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-13016770966480273222010-07-02T11:50:00.003-08:002010-07-02T12:19:18.029-08:00From now onI will only use this blog to complain about things which I hate. Today, it's Hollywood. Again.<br /><br />I know that I have already penned long <a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2008/11/no.html">diatribes</a> about how Big Movies seem determined to destroy the things I feel strongly about by making them NEW! and IMPROVED! but I have to rant about it again. See, a couple of years ago, a <a href="http://www.pajiba.com/film_reviews/let-the-right-one-in.php">little Swedish horror film</a> called <span style="font-weight: bold;">Let the Right One In</span> made a bit of a splash amongst film buffs for being creepy, atmospheric, and heartbreaking. It is a coming of age story about having no age to come to, and an exploration of loneliness shared. One of my <a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2008/07/overwhelming-sense-of-nostalgia.html">favorite themes</a> that gets explored in storytelling is how we constantly strive for connection and the myriad ways we build bridges between ourselves. It stayed with me for weeks after I watched it, and I recommended it to anyone who would listen to me. Now Hollywood has gone and "remade" it so's Joe Average don't have to read and watch a movie at the same time (so taxing!) and I am wailing in protest.<br /><br />All you need to know about the changes made to the story - and I have no doubt they will be endless and appallingly hamfisted - is to note the difference in the admonition offered by the original and revamped titles. Let Me In - the American version - is a plea against good sense, and the very thing we are warned against when dealing with vampires. Let the <span style="font-style: italic;">Right One</span> In... well, there are exceptions to every rule.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DYcBSQokyBU&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DYcBSQokyBU&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qjavOLdPk1c&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qjavOLdPk1c&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I don't have to implore you to let the right one in, do I? Chose wisely.<br /><br />Also, if you have yet to read the book, go ahead and do it. But not if you think every horror movie needs to be scored with angry screaming rock instead of minor key cello.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-52324981618126845972010-05-13T20:23:00.000-08:002010-05-13T20:24:11.606-08:00Dear Facebook,No. Just no. But thanks anyhow.<br /><br />Yours,<br />Stellastellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-35980345032607845962010-04-07T20:24:00.003-08:002010-04-07T21:02:41.400-08:00Happy anniversaryReady for more relationship nonsense, kids? Mmkay, here goes.<br /><br />I already talked about the stuff, how it happened. We met, and it was supposed to be all fling-y and wasn't that a terrific weekend? and then we couldn't stop talking for three hours on the phone and emailing seventeen times a day. A week after I had to ask his last name so I could feel okay about knowing the color of his underwear, he asked me if I wanted to go on An Adventure, to which I said yes, and then when I came back from it, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I didn't feel all the butterflies and woozy palpitations. My lack of crushing on him in the face of my deep seated desire to know him very well indeed concerned me. I wanted him to run like hell from my insane declarations of maybe something kind of like affection, but he refused to. So then the next five months were me pretending he was telling me the truth the whole truth and nothing but the, and him pretending that I couldn't tell the difference. And then we had a very modern kind of break-up, which was really more like a refusal of service.<br /><br />And then one year ago to this very day, he drove up to the cafe in a fifteen year old car filled to the brim with brightly colored bribes and a crazy puffy blanket which I have since found I can't sleep under. I frankly wasn't sure that I would ever do so much as read a Facebook post from him again at that point, and having him walk hand in hand down the street with me was surreal.<br /><br />Since then a whole lot has happened. What it all boils down to though, is that I made a bet with myself that I would never make him a birthday cake, and I lost. Last year I half-assedly made him one to share with my mom (sorry, mom. really sorry.) Now this year I have promised him not just cake, but a pie, too, because I like him that much. AND I am rehearsing again, just so's he can have the Rockabilly Birthday Barbeque Bash I promised him last year when I found out he shares his natal day with Carl Perkins. And I bought him a (whisperwhisperwhisper) and a (mumblemumble) and I'm thinking of giving him the THING, you know the one? [Z. - you didn't for a moment think it would be that easy, did you?] So now he's beholden, what with the awesome presents.<br /><br />I have not woken up one morning out of the last three hundred and sixty five and thought, "This guy's a jerk. What the hell, Perez?" I haven't even thought, "What am I DOING?" (actually this is pretty much how I start every morning regardless of who I wake up next to, but it has never been in reference to my partnership) I just turn over and make sure he's still there, which he always is.<br /><br />I am holding up an imaginary glass full of something delicious - right now I wish it were Prosecco and St Germain - in a toast to this marvelous year, and to the man who made it possible, and to you, dear reader, for getting this far even when there are no pretty outfits or pictures of my new tattoos to distract you. I'll see you here again, same Bat time, same Bat channel, in 2011.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-59720444483769277412010-02-26T18:55:00.003-09:002010-02-26T19:31:43.824-09:00Where do we go?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vLD2Y6EGhhd14q-25lKdpDJ_hacOlbvS7RlD-6SkUBkFn3osXnDg-g3XAnROXQvwbUSZ3Og9rfJ-lITC4kryPAuSNEw_ESlCVhoP3Xjy4cxmbdsFfa9Ty6dWL2-x9MhxkoOomw/s1600-h/moats.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vLD2Y6EGhhd14q-25lKdpDJ_hacOlbvS7RlD-6SkUBkFn3osXnDg-g3XAnROXQvwbUSZ3Og9rfJ-lITC4kryPAuSNEw_ESlCVhoP3Xjy4cxmbdsFfa9Ty6dWL2-x9MhxkoOomw/s320/moats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442776195993360818" border="0" /></a><br />Of all the ridiculous, impetuous, hot-headed things I've done - and rest assured, friends, I have done a LOT of them - most of them I have regretted nearly immediately. I've gone and done it again, and it has taken me weeks to feel like perhaps I should have thought things through a teensy, tiny bit better.<br /><br />I quit the band.<br /><br />I quit my <a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2007/05/sugar-shakers-are-delicious.html">own band</a>, the one I sweated and bled over. The band that practically saved my life. The band that was directly responsible for my<a href="http://becomingmarieantoinette.blogspot.com/2009/09/reason-why.html"> current relationship</a>. The band that was the reason I made friends with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfEoeVKZQxM">Eve Hell</a> and Memphis Evil, the reason I shook Geoff Firebaugh's hand and had beers with Deke Dickerson, the reason I saw Wanda Jackson perform from backstage. The band that finally allowed me to be the woman I have always fancied myself to be.<br /><br />When we first started the Sugar Shakers, I talked seriously with a Musician (like one who does it exclusively for money) and he said: bands are like families. It's all very dysfunctional, and there are expectations that never get met, and drama is unavoidable. I laughed him off, because seriously. I wasn't touring 200 dates a year, I was playing for my friends in the bars where I drink on the weekends. I should have paid better attention.<br /><br />Here's what I loved: falling into the pocket, playing like breathing, knowing how's it's gonna go before it happens. I loved being clapped for, being told I was gorgeous or amazing, being asked again and again to do it some more. I loved being in the constant company of artists and musicians. I loved the insufferably geeky feeling of passing bits of music trivia back and forth. I loved the way the second whiskey went down, the ice slowly melting in my glass on top of my amp, sipping from it while bantering with the pretty girls in the audience. I loved cabling up and tearing down, jenga-ing all the gear into a vehicle, transforming into Stella.<br /><br />Here's what I hated: taking sides. Not moving forward. Feeling like it was a chore for other band members. Playing who's got the biggest tiara. Being told to just be a princess. I hated those things more than I loved the other stuff for about six months, and I finally just gave up.<br /><br />I miss it a whole damn parking lot. Ukulele isn't the same thing as slap bass, and I don't really write punk songs, as much as I like to think I do. I love rockabilly music, and I love to play my doghouse. I hope I can find a way to do the things I love without it devolving again into sniping and stressing out. It's only rock and roll.<br /><br /><object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/V8fXPIBkP68&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/V8fXPIBkP68&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="364" width="445"></embed></object>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-76766947298947713562010-02-12T21:15:00.002-09:002010-02-12T21:18:27.174-09:00Valentime's MixtapeDear Zac,<br /><br /><object width="250" height="400"> <param name="movie" value="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf"></param> <param name="wmode" value="window"></param> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param> <param name="flashvars" value="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=20090639&style=metal&bbg=450512&bt=D9183E&bfg=8A0721&p=0"></param> <embed src="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="250" height="400" flashvars="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=20090639&style=metal&bbg=450512&bt=D9183E&bfg=8A0721&p=0" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="window"></embed></object><br /><br />You make me swoon.<br /><br />(P.S. all you people who have hung on this long - I KNOW. I'm SORRY. Sometimes I am less entertaining than I purport to be.)stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-57165240573915039372009-11-17T15:51:00.001-09:002009-11-17T16:39:47.579-09:00Reconstructed (and it feels so good...)Recently I have had a renewed interest in crafting and sewing. Part of it was successfully constructing the Halloween costumes for me and Miss Thing, and part of it was being in a place again that inspires me and sparks my imagination. I took the plunge recently and bought a new (brand-new!) sewing machine because it was cheap and I thought the tension on mine was shot (turns out it just need a little love and a new needle.) The new one is plastic and very lightweight - I nearly tipped it over trying it out - and it doesn't have the solid sound or feel of my 40 year old Kenmore. It is fast, however, and the tension dials all work, so I guess that is something in its favor. I decided yesterday that its inaugural project needed to be something quick and dirty that I would feel triumphant about. I went with a sweater reconstruction that I have been contemplating for months.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I had forgotten about <a href="http://www.sweetsassafras.org/">Sweet Sassafras</a> (her real name is Sarai) for a while. I voraciously followed her when I was addicted to Craftster about two years ago, and I read her blog religiously. Then my computer went dark for a while and I had to reconstruct my bookmarks from memory. She was one of the ones that got lost. I rediscovered her because S. sent me a link to her patterns, and in researching fit and ease of sewing, I stumbled upon her website again. I remembered how much I enjoy her sense of style and her writing, and how much I lovelovelove her reconstructions. One was a recon where she did nothing but improve the fit of a particular cardigan. It reminded me of my own sweater I had been too lazy and uninspired to improve upon. It is the softest, sweetest dove gray cashmere blend - from Fred Meyer. It was boxy and unformed, and had developed a rip at the neckline and lost a few buttons. I followed<a href="http://www.sweetsassafras.org/2008/01/27/how-to-alter-a-wool-sweater"> Sarai's instructions</a> for fitting it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6BaDhsR-y8iZwARyXXyQkA9CAbdcxa_SZTrzrmlVObkg6zJ2w5kPyN-3bNHsGvZQlovZugCM_-ud-ARwcOXkGc6lvf1YSMcsvnMaIXwTMTaFAW6RM9-sJqxBFry4mFSKBOnegQ/s1600/reconstruct1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6BaDhsR-y8iZwARyXXyQkA9CAbdcxa_SZTrzrmlVObkg6zJ2w5kPyN-3bNHsGvZQlovZugCM_-ud-ARwcOXkGc6lvf1YSMcsvnMaIXwTMTaFAW6RM9-sJqxBFry4mFSKBOnegQ/s320/reconstruct1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405245594878849394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">here it is pinned. you can see its basic non-shape.</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Because I am lazy, I did not baste. Instead, I sketched the new seam lines lightly, with a Sharpie because I couldn't find my fabric marker.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7IqVVGjq19RtFIbApJg0lW2el6I0ph7Y57g5dkOJqmNanPDzwmUcU8vyFAd__4rV8i4_OxLOQejzkNw3Ob5WMvOFvcYBGfbtCqL-NehbxbKk8wCc0HEZtWJO5Z8azcUo5gsmJw/s1600/reconstruct2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7IqVVGjq19RtFIbApJg0lW2el6I0ph7Y57g5dkOJqmNanPDzwmUcU8vyFAd__4rV8i4_OxLOQejzkNw3Ob5WMvOFvcYBGfbtCqL-NehbxbKk8wCc0HEZtWJO5Z8azcUo5gsmJw/s320/reconstruct2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405245600705362770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I regraded the sleeve, to your left, because it was a weird angle at first.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It was a matter of perhaps three and half minutes of sewing to make it into an article of clothing I would be happy to wear out of the house. I ran up the new seams and mended to neck tear with a little satin stitch. Then I spent about 45 minutes searching for this particular cream colored lace, which I knew I had used TWO WEEKS AGO in the creation of the costumes. I couldn't rest until I found it. When it was finally located, I went about the business of embellishing it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9v9PyMvUz5lhXPWT_Cf80f9q2OXHTIzxrinkqpxm602KloIL7ag9SelKI41C9VxsdiI8yPCmjZhi51yuRHDcL8MpgbkMENGb5fXdKTJg9U9l9_xhm24miRhCb4S_XFWkMb_iwIA/s1600/recondeets3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9v9PyMvUz5lhXPWT_Cf80f9q2OXHTIzxrinkqpxm602KloIL7ag9SelKI41C9VxsdiI8yPCmjZhi51yuRHDcL8MpgbkMENGb5fXdKTJg9U9l9_xhm24miRhCb4S_XFWkMb_iwIA/s320/recondeets3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405245608433899522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">remember when <a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/index.jsp">anthropologie</a> made things that were delicate and feminine and vintage-y? that's what i was shooting for.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">In addition to the lace, I added pearl buttons in place of the plain faux-shell ones that were there, and I finally trimmed the neck in the last of this delightful French velvet ribbon in ivory. I couldn't resist adding a tiny bow, even though my first instinct was that is was a bit twee. I might remove it later; right now I like it.<br /><br />I felt so good about finishing it that I put it on immediately and wore it for the rest of the day. By the end of the night, I was feeling so creative that I broke out some jewelry making supplies and made a necklace, too. I have two more cardigans that could stand a little love, and I have a bag of vintage trims someplace that, in keeping with <a href="http://ww.whyareyousavingthat.blogspot.com">my philosophy</a>, I am not longer saving for later. Well, not much later, anyway.<br /></div></div><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-47989959246676278892009-11-15T20:44:00.003-09:002009-11-15T21:31:13.445-09:00Are you hungry?I had a discussion with La Fabulous the other day about cooking and she expressed again that she thinks she doesn't know how to cook. This is problematic when you are attempting to woo someone via their stomach (not that I have ever done this *cough*.) I decided that it would be a travesty if she - or any of you! - was to perhaps lose a chance at the love of one's life because you were forced to go to IHOP because you couldn't whip together one quick and astonishing meal from things you can buy at the bodega across the street. So: frittata.<br /><br />You will need: Eggs, about 3 per person. Potatoes. Some veggies - I always use onions, but also like bell peppers, mushrooms, spinach, zucchini... things you wouldn't hate in an omelet. Sausage, if you are a sausage eater. Cheese, if you feel like it. A touch of cream or milk or half and half or non-vanilla soy milk. Salt and pepper and cayenne if you like; garlic too, powder or minced.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">First, get all your veggies ready. Chop them up into bite sized-ish pieces. Slice your potatoes into rounds thinly.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm036w3SjxTwatKMo75DN2rIletThx-8TNO9pYFa45KA1EYLPck-HLYNnm8TJ0qRKR9EtuhNquFiLoV8MK-vWAasUrHSn5UNHw015_pmGljHlIb4Mmpr_wZRojfuwvNskhJd45DQ/s1600/veg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm036w3SjxTwatKMo75DN2rIletThx-8TNO9pYFa45KA1EYLPck-HLYNnm8TJ0qRKR9EtuhNquFiLoV8MK-vWAasUrHSn5UNHw015_pmGljHlIb4Mmpr_wZRojfuwvNskhJd45DQ/s320/veg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404577698765183794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">this is the minimalist version - peppers, onions, potatoes</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">Now choose a pan. I was making a lot of breakfast for a lot of people, and used three Russet potatoes, a whole red pepper and most of a largish onion, so I went with a giant cast iron skillet. When I make this for just me and the boy, I use an 8" square brownie pan and about 1/3 the stuff. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCmHIN0Fln2gnCH3Cnk3bD8Z0WNBlvdDKcYgQCtG59UajGZL_V-BxgdBxBruwKdHlnHck5mwf1xNiGESSz4MtDuFdSomCkftvKyxRHnktFh9lCDxTMCNzaxfvN9lR6ehldmcgMw/s1600/potato.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCmHIN0Fln2gnCH3Cnk3bD8Z0WNBlvdDKcYgQCtG59UajGZL_V-BxgdBxBruwKdHlnHck5mwf1xNiGESSz4MtDuFdSomCkftvKyxRHnktFh9lCDxTMCNzaxfvN9lR6ehldmcgMw/s320/potato.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404577692923568274" border="0" /></a>Oil the pan generously and put your potatoes in so they form the crust.<br /><br />Saute any of the fillings that require it - any meat that is raw, like sausage or bacon or the neighbor's awful cat, and any veggies that won't cook thoroughly in the time it takes to bake, like onions or mushrooms or broccoli. This is where I toss the seasonings in: salt and pepper and garlic. Softer veggies or ones that will overcook, like bell peppers and zucchini, don't need this step.<br /><br />Layer your fillings on top of your potatoes.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-YaeKC0RkOmYfLC4DBQn4DtIQfPV9K09kBR9WseqNgmTVDoKYwjTDxP-HDXDKVLx_qrSKQYbi4EQ8FlxO5lfkJBBq0-86geoOPS7CsjZ5eHjUXlHBiDLNSTJR2WlaGfHgg32VQ/s1600/layers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-YaeKC0RkOmYfLC4DBQn4DtIQfPV9K09kBR9WseqNgmTVDoKYwjTDxP-HDXDKVLx_qrSKQYbi4EQ8FlxO5lfkJBBq0-86geoOPS7CsjZ5eHjUXlHBiDLNSTJR2WlaGfHgg32VQ/s320/layers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404577681308342834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">just throw it all in. if i put cheese in, it goes on the bottom.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Now your eggs. Crack as many as you need - two or three per person - and add about a teaspoon of dairy (or soy) for each egg you use. Like I said, I was feeding lots, so I used a whole dozen eggs and a 1/4 cup of soy creamer (this was the dairy free version. I found out later it should have been meat-free, too. My bad.) Whisk them all up until they are creamy and light.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9SV2mgZ-swLHqvfCFt7DwXHZGnzOZtkFKOP_Tloav6tCwpSK_jeQGC_oStvhgjur6AhwYGRMIadtjK9FoWYOsr4FUc-E7ngCnkt9tTo4KjwTv4DziNv5DgM55hwIRdpwxPJXnA/s1600/eggs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9SV2mgZ-swLHqvfCFt7DwXHZGnzOZtkFKOP_Tloav6tCwpSK_jeQGC_oStvhgjur6AhwYGRMIadtjK9FoWYOsr4FUc-E7ngCnkt9tTo4KjwTv4DziNv5DgM55hwIRdpwxPJXnA/s320/eggs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404577678253420178" border="0" /></a><br />Then pour it on the top of your stuff.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-p0D5cFyF7eqEs_yt5dBXflVicpOqByglC3fRy3OLeVMvDgrTvJEOgRHq1cz_jvAUoFMnSvc1wFC9SZVQRsDXqz5YOFQFyuASAK4AsNdSVq9Q754JyeCXmFrKHFcIljGGhw6SQ/s1600/ovenready.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-p0D5cFyF7eqEs_yt5dBXflVicpOqByglC3fRy3OLeVMvDgrTvJEOgRHq1cz_jvAUoFMnSvc1wFC9SZVQRsDXqz5YOFQFyuASAK4AsNdSVq9Q754JyeCXmFrKHFcIljGGhw6SQ/s320/ovenready.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404577673041416354" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">this is balanced rather precariously, which was pointed out to me as I almost threw it to the floor in my frenzy to photograph it.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>You should have had your oven preheating at this point, but I won't tell if you forgot. 350-ish, and closer to the bottom than the top of the oven is better. It takes about 40 minutes, until it doesn't jiggle when you shake it and the edges are a little browned. If you want cheese and didn't put it in before, it's alright to melt it on the top. <br /><br />Cut this into wedges and serve it with sourdough toast and plenty of butter and marmalade. Or make muffins. Muffins are always delicious. If you're eating this for dinner, opt for a warm crusty loaf of bread and a light red wine. I prefer the sausage to be chorizo at dinner. Green bell peppers and tomato with the chorizo make it like a Spanish torta. The best thing about this is, there is the potential for lots of prep work to be shared with the person you are out to impress, while standing shoulder to shoulder in your tiny kitchen, talking about your travels and feeding each other bits of cheese. And if the person should turn out to be the sort who eats your scrumptious meal and never returns your phone calls, you can take comfort in the fact that you probably blew less than $15 on dinner, not counting the wine, and that's what you would have spent on take-out.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-34652540831870417012009-11-14T10:47:00.002-09:002009-11-14T11:08:09.767-09:00I started another one because no one is too busy to be prettyOkay, you guys. I need your help. I just started a new blog (I know. I KNOW.) and it can't happen without you. I have vision, and I need some people to assist me in making it come to pass. Head over to <a href="http://whyareyousavingthat.blogspot.com/">Why Are You Saving That?</a> and read the post, then do it. I want to have lots of pictures of lots of people wearing and using their lovely things. Please? I'm not afraid to beg...stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-85962694891636003082009-11-05T15:42:00.005-09:002009-11-05T16:29:27.736-09:00Life gets in the wayI promised you all the wonderful costume creation updates, but it didn't happen. For one thing, as usual, I waited until the eleventh hour to make the darned thing (really the 11:30th hour, if the truth be told) and, as usual, I had a difficult-to-resolve issue with my computer that made it impossible to blog for a couple of weeks. So here I am back again, many many hours after my last post, and Halloween has come and gone without a peep from me on the making of the White Rabbit. It was successful, that much I know, because I got an extra Bingo! card because of it.<br /><br />Bingo!? you ask? Yes, the <a href="http://www.neworleansbingoshow.com/Site/The_New_Orleans_Bingo%21_Show.html">New Orleans Bingo! S</a><a href="http://www.neworleansbingoshow.com/Site/The_New_Orleans_Bingo%21_Show.html">how</a>, witnessed in full glory on Halloween itself in the city which is perhaps the love of my life. The whole reason I had to have a lightweight packable costume was so it would fit in my suitcase and be comfortable to wear for twelve hours outdoors in the company of 20,000 of my friends at <a href="http://thevoodooexperience.com/2009/index.php">Voodoo Experience</a>. It was brilliant and beautiful and I don't regret for a moment that I forwent the dubious pleasures of the Gourds in order to watch Perry Farrell declare, "Tonight I am a superhero!" Also, I saw Gogol Bordello and the Black Keys and the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, who are as famous to me as Jane's Addiction, and a whole host of others. And I got to spend my favorite holiday in the company of two people that I couldn't love more if they were related to me by blood. I was deliriously happy that we were all together.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxiXbf5RvSMl7urtWNsRiNFjzM3uVOVqxPs1-Kgk5waVAPxfywsXlfAQLcvWRQRsuBSrx21L-DTZheYRXMQJ3p3OjKwZIfWYr0k3OzfBLrewanqKQUoWVAnExIlyxwtddTmR_3w/s1600-h/val+at+voodoo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxiXbf5RvSMl7urtWNsRiNFjzM3uVOVqxPs1-Kgk5waVAPxfywsXlfAQLcvWRQRsuBSrx21L-DTZheYRXMQJ3p3OjKwZIfWYr0k3OzfBLrewanqKQUoWVAnExIlyxwtddTmR_3w/s320/val+at+voodoo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400788433657086130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">she was so happy to see those gypsy punks!<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">New Orleans is not a town for everyone. It is brimming with ghosts and legends and glitter and dirt. It is urgent and spooky and difficult like a lover. It is not full of convenience and quirk. It takes a certain darkness of spirit to adore it, and that is trait that my companions and I revel in sharing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTMmcduIC9d_ZKHhdgN8LaFX1gYqR6hFFsHcD7d1Uv0GJeSgOAbdba7hzF6NPccEIaqFCFUmyxC-M0rBgYFhUo9SkJlv9BAwB4NBVWwNuTYsz9NnIM00xJl0bLkUKxNfmmuQ90Q/s1600-h/creepyzac.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTMmcduIC9d_ZKHhdgN8LaFX1gYqR6hFFsHcD7d1Uv0GJeSgOAbdba7hzF6NPccEIaqFCFUmyxC-M0rBgYFhUo9SkJlv9BAwB4NBVWwNuTYsz9NnIM00xJl0bLkUKxNfmmuQ90Q/s320/creepyzac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400791073223159922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">this was hardly even a costume</span><br /><br /></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">It was harder to bid the city adieu this time. Each time I visit a new place, I find myself wondering if I could slot myself into the life that is there, if I could make a place for myself in that world. Would this be my grocery store? Would I wash my clothes here? Would I fall in with these marvelous people, become their friend, have dinner parties at their houses? There is never the questioning when I am in New Orleans. I think to myself: this would be the place I would buy milk. This would be the cafe where I ate Sunday morning brunch. My children would go to this school, they would wear these uniforms gladly. These would be my people, my friends, my tribe. And I wait anxiously until the time comes to return.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkH63soVl3nXHce8hCFUwbOptyFxob6JQsTP7LD5cBJefhECecVLc2as9qhA_Yn2Gu9ZRlBq71pWXXH54c1kyRCeAwn9cirhpGqQ4B7ZchEXJIbc8UHHsMw-mKiVzxXacVpmMvg/s1600-h/allhallows09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkH63soVl3nXHce8hCFUwbOptyFxob6JQsTP7LD5cBJefhECecVLc2as9qhA_Yn2Gu9ZRlBq71pWXXH54c1kyRCeAwn9cirhpGqQ4B7ZchEXJIbc8UHHsMw-mKiVzxXacVpmMvg/s320/allhallows09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400788443724322626" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-style: italic;">a certain darkness of spirit</span>,<span style="font-style: italic;"> indeed</span><br /><br /><br /><object width="250" height="400"> <param name="movie" value="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf"> <param name="wmode" value="window"> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"> <param name="flashvars" value="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=16452190&style=metal&bbg=450512&bfg=8A0721&bt=D9183E&bth=450512&pbg=D9183E&pbgh=8A0721&pfg=450512&pfgh=D9183E&si=D9183E&lbg=D9183E&lbgh=8A0721&lfg=450512&lfgh=D9183E&sb=D9183E&sbh=8A0721&p=0"> <embed src="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=16452190&style=metal&bbg=450512&bfg=8A0721&bt=D9183E&bth=450512&pbg=D9183E&pbgh=8A0721&pfg=450512&pfgh=D9183E&si=D9183E&lbg=D9183E&lbgh=8A0721&lfg=450512&lfgh=D9183E&sb=D9183E&sbh=8A0721&p=0" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="window" width="250" height="400"></embed></object><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-32297665902565812172009-10-09T16:39:00.003-08:002009-10-09T17:03:15.029-08:00Jenkies!Monday outfits used to happen with regularity, but they don't anymore. As a matter of fact, I haven't worn something blog-worthy in long enough that <span style="font-style: italic;">some people</span> (you know who you are) have expressed dismay over the lack of whimsy and quirk that is usually expressed through my sartorial choices. Well, here. It's Friday, and I almost waited until Monday to post this, but I know that I will forget.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YwTy67ECEyGmZ_6gSLeGcpRse5cS8y1CvEpewH8oslPLQX_bqZiM-_2DG0JuuissZbX3mEGYbj49Hzzxrf9Hj4T-Fkvm_RwkFd9PKuEhsdG1CHkj-7YnnMaYG44zG-bDXEYfIA/s1600-h/dino+tee.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YwTy67ECEyGmZ_6gSLeGcpRse5cS8y1CvEpewH8oslPLQX_bqZiM-_2DG0JuuissZbX3mEGYbj49Hzzxrf9Hj4T-Fkvm_RwkFd9PKuEhsdG1CHkj-7YnnMaYG44zG-bDXEYfIA/s320/dino+tee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390765739167182882" border="0" /></a><br />I bought this red skirt from <a href="http://www.shopplasticland.com/">Plasticland</a>. It's from Tulle, and it is a light sweater knit in rayon and polyester. I thought it was going to be jersey-ish and bias-cut, but I actually like it better this way. The tee-shirt is from <a href="http://www.threadless.com/">Threadless</a>' 9/9/09 sale (all the shirts on the site were $9) and might be my favorite piece of clothing I've ever owned. In case you can't see it, it is a drawing of a T. Rex on a unicycle wearing a tophat and a clown nose, juggling bowling pins and a lady's leg. I added charcoal knee socks and black ballet flats.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhMy0Lp30vDAPROW6ma_emOMu0qyBmYYy7OX0mJ9_vi04aFTZ2I9abN4Zhao_3bTTADFTh-jEyFKDWlhdwZF0COYHoshXagi5YtfqiSSUWEHLSQS9vYJILGKDdSi9Smbor_N9FQ/s1600-h/dino+tee+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhMy0Lp30vDAPROW6ma_emOMu0qyBmYYy7OX0mJ9_vi04aFTZ2I9abN4Zhao_3bTTADFTh-jEyFKDWlhdwZF0COYHoshXagi5YtfqiSSUWEHLSQS9vYJILGKDdSi9Smbor_N9FQ/s320/dino+tee+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390765730447275890" border="0" /></a><br />Later I got chilly and pulled on this stripey sweater from Old Navy that I have had for approximately one million years. It makes me look a little like Velma from Scooby Doo. The headband doesn't hurt the resemblance at all. It also seems to add about fifteen pounds to my frame, but that might just be the angle of my arms while I'm taking this picture.<br /><br />Apologies for my weird faces as usual. I don't know how to do the Myspace coyface thing. I can't only make the please-God-don't-let-me-drop-my-camera-while-taking-a-photo thing.<br /><br />More Halloween updates soon, my lovelies. Ta until then!stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-1105208722872694522009-10-01T15:24:00.005-08:002009-10-01T16:18:26.346-08:00Rabbit parts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFOVZXnSTHN_rTpa_nW8ruTEnGJLCSs6eFOBk1a4uMtmkdvJxd-RY3cG2Iw6mQZtz5GrYk6Ag3ykc-ORiwFNZPmFLLMj0l3IJQNrlX7IYiwNZGU-tLeA31JsjOUsQx7p19F5XgA/s1600-h/rabbit_parts_labeled.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFOVZXnSTHN_rTpa_nW8ruTEnGJLCSs6eFOBk1a4uMtmkdvJxd-RY3cG2Iw6mQZtz5GrYk6Ag3ykc-ORiwFNZPmFLLMj0l3IJQNrlX7IYiwNZGU-tLeA31JsjOUsQx7p19F5XgA/s320/rabbit_parts_labeled.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387777103705482450" border="0" /></a><br />I have made a little headway in my Halloween costume. As usual, the White E opened its magical portals and I found the basic pieces I needed to create most of my costume.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaHqamF13c2zH1u6I33D66drzyO_QGbUWdSFUdR-kmAjBZHGPaFgGgT4MkE05lyFzTd_IdebgDjoGlCHnT_ChseKW0jIiAu4etIzFCt1i8plDIbRGRnETrweX9Z8t5hxxek-BUQ/s1600-h/P9300996.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaHqamF13c2zH1u6I33D66drzyO_QGbUWdSFUdR-kmAjBZHGPaFgGgT4MkE05lyFzTd_IdebgDjoGlCHnT_ChseKW0jIiAu4etIzFCt1i8plDIbRGRnETrweX9Z8t5hxxek-BUQ/s320/P9300996.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387777823801072722" border="0" /></a>This is the best picture of the color of these pants, although I think in real life they a lighter cream. They are lightweight corduroy, blousy around the thigh, and I will cut them off just below knee-length to make britches. I plan on embellishing them with some lace and satin ribbons.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1-QB2lAx4fE43NnxS3v7HVsm31dvoDep9d7upUJrTpx0BPArUdJ-9RhcwCjJiGCxUd0rmSZ2K0Xgl-eGJlvyaAv3jMTRYWZ9azEFI62Mq4bqDnHNTEGwxCSzIjKZduMbZIYjxw/s1600-h/P9300986.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT1-QB2lAx4fE43NnxS3v7HVsm31dvoDep9d7upUJrTpx0BPArUdJ-9RhcwCjJiGCxUd0rmSZ2K0Xgl-eGJlvyaAv3jMTRYWZ9azEFI62Mq4bqDnHNTEGwxCSzIjKZduMbZIYjxw/s320/P9300986.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387777630245076898" border="0" /></a>Here is the rest of the fabulous I hunted up out of my stash. My vision is a decrepit, fraying-about-the-edges Victorian toy, hence the creams and ivories and taupes in place of the bright whites of the Disneyfied Rabbit.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIW-OCyUMtFyZrFcHzKzvNnlmJxX6186InqcOxzhyHDbRqmqzCBVbiGg6rDnXmLmeCBoD7OPXSSjk7C9s1L07XvciESwJx-2TqTOPEcyhY5x1aVbAjyNtxs5B4zXxRm6vVfCaww/s1600-h/P9300993.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigIW-OCyUMtFyZrFcHzKzvNnlmJxX6186InqcOxzhyHDbRqmqzCBVbiGg6rDnXmLmeCBoD7OPXSSjk7C9s1L07XvciESwJx-2TqTOPEcyhY5x1aVbAjyNtxs5B4zXxRm6vVfCaww/s320/P9300993.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387777646962553250" border="0" /></a><br />I like this linen shirt a lot. I like the frocking detail and the tiny Peter Pan collar and miniscule pearly buttons. I think it will be hard to wear a cravat with it, because the collar is so small, but perhaps I will veer from my primary inspiration - the Tenniel illustrations - and wear a ribbon tie instead. I do love the idea of a cravat, though, even if it would be a bit warm.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjeSXqExu0FLJRSahp1HzUoJZgApKJBfG822IXLbec3QY4VXQ9PjWHxa1-MX6v85xtPrKCthJlZSI9R57vdpGvUU_7BKbhTa2Qr5NRarcBKNlfWu0XOgw2gBoDBkQNOMTkhPobQ/s1600-h/P9300998.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjeSXqExu0FLJRSahp1HzUoJZgApKJBfG822IXLbec3QY4VXQ9PjWHxa1-MX6v85xtPrKCthJlZSI9R57vdpGvUU_7BKbhTa2Qr5NRarcBKNlfWu0XOgw2gBoDBkQNOMTkhPobQ/s320/P9300998.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387777626705219906" border="0" /></a><br />Finally, the E graced me with a set of rabbit ears. These are being reconstructed as well, as I find them a little bit Playboy the way they are right now. I haven't decided yet whether I want to add elements of the rest of the story to my costume; if so then the ears will be attached to a wee top hat fascinator. If not, then I plan on removing them and attaching them to a headband that is covered in cream satin or velvet, together in a <span style="font-weight: bold;">V</span> off to one side. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRIcM2vj7-chz8TF0ScbLT1K3CTSnDcqtMjc7K_MK3lFsf22cn4qZgFDKEzEEQnc2Le4AcHO4V-7uaAFKAyndhJ1wciRdjdMAqiYD7OB0XIqP7gq2pDKI7UqyFQqSn2d4MvhjkQ/s1600-h/rabbitshoes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRIcM2vj7-chz8TF0ScbLT1K3CTSnDcqtMjc7K_MK3lFsf22cn4qZgFDKEzEEQnc2Le4AcHO4V-7uaAFKAyndhJ1wciRdjdMAqiYD7OB0XIqP7gq2pDKI7UqyFQqSn2d4MvhjkQ/s320/rabbitshoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387782960641098594" border="0" /></a>Gratuitously, here are the shoes that I ordered, because I am insane enough to order shoes specifically for a Halloween costume.<br /><br />So far I have done no actual crafting, but I have lots of inspiration and plenty of materials. I also found in the depths of my stash the prettiest black Bavarian ribbon with hot pink and red roses on it. I think it will be perfect for trimming the dirndl part of Miss Thing's Red Riding Hood costume. If I can convince her that she wants the dress in sky blue instead of red, we'll be in business soon. Otherwise, it may be a slight delay while I figure out fabric options.<br /><br />The Cap'n has decided he wants to be Thriller Zombie Michael Jackson for the high holiday, so I need to lay hands on a decent makeup kit and maybe on a Jheri-curl wig.<br /><br />Hopefully the next time I post I will have started on the construction of the vest. I am just awaiting brocade in the mail...stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31612983.post-53064433724130235952009-09-26T15:55:00.004-08:002009-09-26T16:32:39.742-08:00At long last!I know that you all only come here for the parts when I talk exhaustively about costuming, sewing and crafting, and that you were sorely disappointed last year when I copped out so hugely. Breathe your sighs of relief, then, because I have determined that I will NOT spend three hours desperately wiring rubber snakes together in an effort to make it seem as though I put effort into my costume choice. NO, this year, my lovelies, I am going to make a costume.<br /><br />It is not as inspired as years past, but my criteria were different. It needs to be packable, longwearing, lightweight for temperature reasons, and reasonably clever. No sticky makeup, no fussy accessories, nothing I will need to constantly check or fix. This immediately disqualified my best ever costume ideas - the story of the green ribbon, and the gutshot cowgirl - and made my favorite forerunner for this year - a steampunk mermaid - seem unfeasible. I settled on something iconic, easy to put together, and yet challenging enough to make me actually want to work on it. I decided to be the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsAEWzAFu8n0NiJSkxot_lJJDz42yogfVMgZkw0Vr_qu2-tAC1DPZ8RcTvChn_BaqeoqZuN5O-WO0lijqkIo2zyeAfstnaOFZa1QAmW_vzKsPPVT4DtOuH7qS5g71j2t5ngzQDg/s1600-h/White+Rabbit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhsAEWzAFu8n0NiJSkxot_lJJDz42yogfVMgZkw0Vr_qu2-tAC1DPZ8RcTvChn_BaqeoqZuN5O-WO0lijqkIo2zyeAfstnaOFZa1QAmW_vzKsPPVT4DtOuH7qS5g71j2t5ngzQDg/s320/White+Rabbit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385934270383208050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The elements are simpler than you are imagining. A vest, some <a href="http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=29277034&ref=sr_gallery_7&&ga_search_query=pantaloons&ga_search_type=category&category=clothing.women&ga_page=3&order=&includes%5B%5D=tags&includes%5B%5D=title">pantaloons</a>, a pocketwatch on a chain, some rabbit ears (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fascinator">fascinator</a> style, natch), and a little pink nose. I am rather pleased with myself. I even have a pattern for a vest that I have been holding onto for years, waiting for the occasion to arise where I might need it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdxk640QtECKgYdDq5P2UFKC1oalh2TmwQ4W8uFNAFQYb3mJCQcAQFX3IgAd_bCNbzRW0q0xtVkS865mG-pvMMqzrOFrrgjDfTWbfjqTFsH5AJnNsV6ntLCVzq35-HX5zEJvjXw/s1600-h/vestpattern.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdxk640QtECKgYdDq5P2UFKC1oalh2TmwQ4W8uFNAFQYb3mJCQcAQFX3IgAd_bCNbzRW0q0xtVkS865mG-pvMMqzrOFrrgjDfTWbfjqTFsH5AJnNsV6ntLCVzq35-HX5zEJvjXw/s320/vestpattern.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385934278377053506" border="0" /></a><br />Also, I might have gone ahead and bought a pocketwatch today. I need one anyway!<br /><br />HRH is going to be Little Red Riding Hood, which I am also making. I bought a set of red velveteen curtains at a garage sale for $5.00 and threw them in the washing machine not long ago. I hope they survive the trip. They smelled about a thousand years old. IF so, they are going to make a really beautiful, heavy, hopefully warm cape. I want to make a pinafore trimmed with Bavarian ribbon, too, and then she can wear a white shirt and white tights and black shoes and carry a basket.<br /><br />So now I have a plan, and two patterns and the fabric for one costume. Now to dust off the sewing machine and set to work. I'll post updates - hopefully with pictures, even! - as I make progress.stellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08811250143467189565noreply@blogger.com1