Shears and Dipshits
So . . . I broke down and bought a pair of sewing shears. Why? Well, your scissors shouldn't click when you cut, and I had a pair of the Fiskers plastic handled cheap ones. Yup. I bought those years ago with my Mom, and I've been using them since. They were long dead, but I kept cutting on. Why? I am stupid. So, I bought the shears. Shears! Oh my god. I should have bought these years ago. When I cut the first piece of fabric with them, and it was like slicing through butter, I cried. Ok, not really. But, it certainly was close.
So, yes, this is a partial ode to these:
And of course, if this was a movie hallelujah choruses would be coming up for these:
In the long run of things, aside from getting them on sale for 45 percent off, new shears don't mean much to those who don't sew and re sculpt fabric into something new. Yes, I did write sculpt. You start out with a flat hunk of fabric cut it, dart it, sew it, hem it, fiddle and tweak it, to end up with something (usually) lovely and divine. Of course, there are always mishaps along the way. Like, when you try a new skirt pattern and it is so ill fitting that it looks like a monkey with pose-able thumbs stitched that bitch together.
Then there are the times that once you have the fabric pre-washed, cut, sewed, and all done you realize that fabric is a devil incarnate and that garment is never, ever getting worn this side of hell. Of course, Goodwill sees these things. If it is well constructed someone else might find the fit perfect for them. Hell, someone else might like stretch denim, or any other ill fitting fabric you tried for wearable muslins.
Yet, if you are like me slivers of your youth emerge and you still hearshit heads kids saying "Is that homemade? Ew, I would never wear something homemade. Yea, we know it is homemade. Why don't you just go to Wal-Mart and get your clothes?" Of course adults say this blather too. I am not sure why, but perhaps they are too stuck in their own insecurities, too stuck up, to "I have to pay a shit load of money for my shirt to show my worth to chumps who don't give a shit about me anyway" to see beyond their own stupidities.
My point: some dipshit told me this week that I should be ashamed to wear handmade. I had to suppress my anger. If my clothes looked like that of a monkey's creation, then perhaps. But, I don't use cheap fabric (on wearable muslins, sometimes) and if it isn't right I won't wear it. Hell, I won't even send it to Goodwill if it isn't right. I've been known to have a garment complete and rip it apart because the zipper looked perfect to everyone but me. So . . . the stupid comment took me back to the moments of my youth preferred forgotten. Of course, it also brought up even dumber comments: "Aren't you afraid it will fall apart while wearing it?" And . . . "I don't see why you can't go get clothes that fit. You should come with me. Ya know, Old Navy is not a place to shop for clothes . . . " Well, shit head, I don't wear ON--sans three tanks I sleep in--and those wrinkles below your butt cheeks and and along your crotch are from pants that are too long in the crotch. Yes, I have also come to believe that most people don't know how clothes are meant to fit.
Well, I would be more afraid of something made in a factory, with underpaid employees, popping buttons and seams than my own. I am certain mine aren't coming undone, as I know the stitch-length and care I put into them.
So, in the proverbial run of things my new shears indirectly dumped something else. The boundaries we have established with goods, the meanings of them, and the misunderstandings that sewing one's clothing means one is making clothes for incredibly cheap prices. Yea, I've made some pants, skirts, and shirts that sell for 50 to 150 bones for less than 25. Yet, sewing isn't cheap people. Nor is the skill, time, and patience it takes. Let alone, the willingness and somewhat fearlessness it takes to be willing to cut into a made garment, redraft a pattern, add darts, remove them, and cut deeper or shallower lines to make something fit the way it is supposed to wrap your body.
In many ways I would say this is an extension of the things every woman should have. Though, everyone should know how to fix a button and stitch a hem. Basics of life. Of course, in my case, those around me have me to fix hems, buttons, make bags, scarves, and clothes . . . it is fun, but I will never understand the lunacy of people.
On that note, I've got a Me Made May post to write.
So, yes, this is a partial ode to these:
And of course, if this was a movie hallelujah choruses would be coming up for these:
In the long run of things, aside from getting them on sale for 45 percent off, new shears don't mean much to those who don't sew and re sculpt fabric into something new. Yes, I did write sculpt. You start out with a flat hunk of fabric cut it, dart it, sew it, hem it, fiddle and tweak it, to end up with something (usually) lovely and divine. Of course, there are always mishaps along the way. Like, when you try a new skirt pattern and it is so ill fitting that it looks like a monkey with pose-able thumbs stitched that bitch together.
Then there are the times that once you have the fabric pre-washed, cut, sewed, and all done you realize that fabric is a devil incarnate and that garment is never, ever getting worn this side of hell. Of course, Goodwill sees these things. If it is well constructed someone else might find the fit perfect for them. Hell, someone else might like stretch denim, or any other ill fitting fabric you tried for wearable muslins.
Yet, if you are like me slivers of your youth emerge and you still hear
My point: some dipshit told me this week that I should be ashamed to wear handmade. I had to suppress my anger. If my clothes looked like that of a monkey's creation, then perhaps. But, I don't use cheap fabric (on wearable muslins, sometimes) and if it isn't right I won't wear it. Hell, I won't even send it to Goodwill if it isn't right. I've been known to have a garment complete and rip it apart because the zipper looked perfect to everyone but me. So . . . the stupid comment took me back to the moments of my youth preferred forgotten. Of course, it also brought up even dumber comments: "Aren't you afraid it will fall apart while wearing it?" And . . . "I don't see why you can't go get clothes that fit. You should come with me. Ya know, Old Navy is not a place to shop for clothes . . . " Well, shit head, I don't wear ON--sans three tanks I sleep in--and those wrinkles below your butt cheeks and and along your crotch are from pants that are too long in the crotch. Yes, I have also come to believe that most people don't know how clothes are meant to fit.
Well, I would be more afraid of something made in a factory, with underpaid employees, popping buttons and seams than my own. I am certain mine aren't coming undone, as I know the stitch-length and care I put into them.
So, in the proverbial run of things my new shears indirectly dumped something else. The boundaries we have established with goods, the meanings of them, and the misunderstandings that sewing one's clothing means one is making clothes for incredibly cheap prices. Yea, I've made some pants, skirts, and shirts that sell for 50 to 150 bones for less than 25. Yet, sewing isn't cheap people. Nor is the skill, time, and patience it takes. Let alone, the willingness and somewhat fearlessness it takes to be willing to cut into a made garment, redraft a pattern, add darts, remove them, and cut deeper or shallower lines to make something fit the way it is supposed to wrap your body.
In many ways I would say this is an extension of the things every woman should have. Though, everyone should know how to fix a button and stitch a hem. Basics of life. Of course, in my case, those around me have me to fix hems, buttons, make bags, scarves, and clothes . . . it is fun, but I will never understand the lunacy of people.
On that note, I've got a Me Made May post to write.
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