'90s Flower Child

I finally get it man.  I mean, like I finally get it.  You know, that signature style and look that marks us, shapes us, makes us happy every day . . . Yup.  Okay, so I've had it for awhile, but it took me some trials to realize that some areas of life are past the point of experimentation.  

Like jeans and tees, with pearls and boots . . . blazers and more boots.  We know.  Right? #always.

First up, I'm dead serious on not making shit to just make it anymore.  Even more serious on eschewing cheap fabrics, tester fabrics, and trying it to see what the fuss is all about.  Yea, no.  Why? When I moved two months ago let us just note that there was a small semi truck of makes that were cast aside from either being  enormously too big as my body has altered in the past couple of years, I never liked, or--my personal favorite here--were in fabrics that I was clearly drunk, out of my mind, or just deaf, dumb, and blind when I purchased, cut, and then sewed!  Yes, I admitted that.  

So, aside from a serious slow down on sewing (seriously, no one should sew what I did last year), I've focused on 2015 as a redesign.  In more ways than one, that last post gave a bunch away . . . blah blah blah.  

First up: I love dresses.  Always have.  I'm a feminist and I can still wear them.  I like to be pretty sometimes.  Of course, I also like my ball caps and tees.  So . . . dresses.  By Hand London Sabrina is a clear '90s throwback, with spaghetti straps and princess seams.  I had more than one in high school (a knit red one, a black one . . . ), and not you can't see those pics as they were high school.  Big hair.  Big hair.  Say it again, big hair.  And . . . awkward posing because high school girls don't realize that, ya know, once a dude sees the outline of boobs and skin surface the rest is rudimentary.  

So . . . hello my new little lover.  Come on over.    

This is the only photo where the sun wasn't suddenly at a douchebag angle.  Of course, the wind also knocked my hair into a fantastical cousin it mode.  

I rock.  I know.  

No cardi  . . . Ahhh.  Notice the teal . . . well, that's peach-skin--which feels soft and slinky without the fuzz--from a super secret fabric shop in Chinatown.  My homegirl took me to her private store, and in doing so also pushed me out of the black and grey zone I'm notorious for (and purple).  She said, "Come on, you know you want that one!"

I would be remiss to lie.  

There are after a long(ish) day of grading, writing, navigating students, grant writing, trip planning, a bit of fuckery, and idling along to traffic constipation.  Holds up well, eh? 

Makes me want to frolic through fields of urban streets, the seven train (NOT), and flash my leche legs at you while you shield your eyes from the bright, bright virgin light.  

I had a rear shot, but see above note on the wind.  So . . . no, no rear shot as it became a "Marilyn." 

I cut a 14, and I sewed a fourteen.  No alterations . . . Really.  Though, I patched that last three inches of the button band (I only had 2 yards of fabric . . . so needed 2.25), but you can't really tell.  I only had fourteen buttons and not sixteen, and it all worked out anyway.  I scoured my stash, and those buttons are from my bestie's gram.  Yea, I've got friends.  ;)

I mean . . . how f-ing cute is this?

Okay, I lied.  I made one alteration. 

I put sliders on the straps.  Like you would a bra.  Honestly, works well for when--ya know--you bloat out or in.  

I promise to never lie to you again.  

Pattern suggests an understitich on the neckline. Do.  It takes like five minutes, and the result is you won't have boob hinge (as I call it from when your facing rides up).  I serged my edges.  Whole kit an kaboodle takes about two hours.  Two hours . . . and that was sending creepy fit shots to my sizer.  What? Every girl has someone she sends pics to and says "Hey, does this make my ass look fat and my boobs flat?" The other side comes back with a brutally honest, "Yea, but your boobs need to come down a size since they are taking up the ENTIRE subway car, and your ass just needs more cardio."  See? Honesty.  The spice of life.

Tips and tricks: press with a ham on the boobs.  That just sounds dirty, don't it?

Now, excuse me while I go jaywalk and make a cabbie look twice.  

On other notes, Me Made May 2015 is almost upon us.  Yay, or not, to 31 days of selfies.  I'll be in Turkey for the first 17 days of it and the last day, as usual, I'll be on a flight to Kentucky for work.  Both ventures are work . . . but good work. Brace yourself now for 31 days of my face, my makes, and various forms of jackassery.  As we all know, I should not be allowed out alone.  Yet, the state hasn't forced a mandate on it yet.  Free bird I am!