Things I forgot to tell you . . .

As spring has been slow to rise, life has not been slow on the upswing as we find ourselves saying closer to middle age than not.  Yea . . . I look around, when in the hell did I hit middle aged? Somewhere between 1992 and now I would presume.  Closer to now, but the exact date . . . probably when I started making millennial jokes (some deserving, some just me getting on mid life snark). 

Anywho, while I haven’t posted here in a month I have been appearing around the web.  Yes, another moment when I look around and say “how in the hell did that happen?”

Let’s see, my main press did an author interview with me.  In it I reveal the secrets of life, love, and happiness.  Okay, well if you’ve either met me or read on here you already know that I long eschewed faith in long term love relationships . . . but, the sides of me that people like certainly appear.  The editors, intern, and such all enjoyed it very much.  Enjoy, if you will. 

Then, I published a travel lit narrative with InTravel.  P.S. vote for me too, s’il vous plait, por favor, lutfen, proze, please . . .  The narrative derives from the November trip to Antalya, which I meandered a moment about here.  This is one of my favorite pieces, with pictures to boot. Ya know, I try not to play favorites with my publications, but . . . shhh.  Don’t tell the others.  Especially not the book manuscript staring at me right now. I just put my beer on her, so that should keep her tame for the evening.

The travel in my life is typically work related, and even here as I was doing to research on travel in the region I found myself escaping and . . .well, I had a Lifetime Movie but certainly not in the outright insane way that normally finds me.  Hey, maybe that is what middle aged is about . . . yea, read on.  Lifetime Movies still don’t have much on me. This time . . . just call me Marilyn.  

I had a conference and shop talk in Romania, and since the airfare was the same to stop in Sofia for the weekend . . .well, I did.  I’m working on a couple of travel lit pieces on both of those excursions, and I will tell you that Sofia is a charming little city.  From the yellow brick road (i.e. bricks from Hungry) that lines the city center, to an abundance of parks, to excursions from the city to a handful of monasteries and drives in the countryside. 

The pic of the paintings will prob end up as a print on my wall . . . 

Someone go tell my five your old self that there really is a yellow brick road, and no . . . I didn't find the Emerald City. 

The faculty building . . .from the uni. 

Then, of course, if you forget yourself enough you can meet great people along the way and have conversations far beyond that of a tourist.  Bill, the West Point grad, residing in Germany in Sofia on business . . . Dani--my landlord--of the business apartments, the lady I bought fabric from who brought out her cell phone and we chatted with Google translate for near 30 minutes (my jacket and shirt caught her eye and she wanted to know what I was going to do with three meters of stretch lace (l let her see part of my bra, she was awed so much that some silk was thrown in for free), and the Chinese high school teacher on sabbatical going places his wife wouldn’t go.  As he said, “she’ll be on sabbatical next year and she’s planning some cooking classes in Paris . . . I’d rather see the monasteries and eat greasy, fried food!”  At that point we were in an amphitheater, and the adults we all are may have attempted to project our voices.  Or not.  You decide. 

 Mornings in Sofia . . .

Around Plovdiv

And Rila Monastery.

Over in Romania . . . well . . . A) apparently the cheese pastry I ate didn’t agree with me, or something . . . I was freaking balloon lady.  My feet got so big that I honestly couldn’t snap my shoes one evening.  Luckily it went away in a few hours, the feet part, but I was still all Puffy McGee on the Black Sea. Rah rah.  Of course . . . I also got a cold while there.  Yes.  Yes.  I call this part . . . read with caution and do not attempt unsupervised.

Constanta . . . a small, village along the Black Sea.

The only photo of Tanfer and me sans Medusa hair.  Also, I'm all Puffy McGee . . . 

There was a bus here one day.  Jesus.  At the bus stop.

So, I go to the chemist and get a non-drowsy cold relief.  I take said yellow pill, of course when opening it I have an immediate flashback to some prescription tabs from the late 80s and early 90s.  That should have been a sign.  See, in the States we have a bizarrely juried, not wholly monitored, multi-layered, complex system of over-the-counter meds and prescription drugs.  Even worse, once meth heads—and other derelict lovers—figured out how to cook cold meds to make meth “the good shit” was removed from our over-the-counter fixer uppers.  That being said, we have an even more jaded system of addressing, prescribing, and allowing drugs from physicians to reach us.  In the midst of this, I should also note that if anyone is going to have a one percent reaction it is me . . .ask my MD and he’ll tell you how more than once he had to go look up side effects as I had the f-ing rare ones.  We laugh now, but when you are planted in a corner, hanging onto two walls it isn’t so funny. The most recent . . . there was itching and hives from an antibiotic.  My body just thinks it is funny when it is not.   

So . . . in Romania I got to pop some yellow pills.  Then I got to wonder if that shit wasn’t amphetamines.  Of course, I might have had a glass of peach wine at some point too (What? Much like mangoes, I cannot turn down a peach beverage).  Might have also sent my MD an email saying Tanfer would send my body back if I died.  I’m fairly certain he has my emails in a spam—or perhaps lunatic—filter by now.  My pal Tanfer made me get out of the rocker one night as she feared I’d fly through the window . . . perhaps she over exaggerates.  None-the-less, this view was fly (legally high or not). 

And the "leftover" Ottoman mosque dubbed the "Turkish Church."

Oh, I did attempt to try out being a blonde.  Tanfer refused to let me.  What? I figured since I was living like Marilyn (and reading Gloria Steinem’s NormaJeanne while at it) I should own it like a student loan bill.  Yea, yea.  While on the upside high of those yellow poppers, which aren’t prescribed in the States any more (seriously . . . we are such Puritans, what’s a little mood elevating medication?), The Curvy Collective published a failed trouser review I wrote about a year ago.  Well a little more (i.e. the background is the old apartment). 

Those pants . . . I give you the power of a failure.  They looked nothing like the picture, had to be altered beyond sanity, and . . . shit happens.  I made a four paneled pencil skirt, that I never took picks of, that I wore until I tore it on the subway one night.  Yea . . . the seven train took a skirt.  Pfft.  That story isn’t as glam as it sounds.  I caught it on an overcrowded platform, ripped it, and then showed entirely too much leg on the way home.  Okay, for Queens that ain’t nothing.  For life on the seven. . . that’s a little pixie dust.  For rural Kansas glimpses of some knickers might matter . . .

Bucharest was rainy.  Yet, we survived. 

 Those plates, if you know Turkish and Mid Eastern art, you can see the strains of Ottoman influence . . .the difference? The color palettes.

Finally, after two weeks working 12+ hours days I came back to the temporary home in Queens (trust me, the work doesn’t stop when I travel . . . ask anyone who meets me or meets up with me, they ALL know.  Tanfer is always appalled, perhaps amazed, that at dawn’s first early light I’m lounging in bed emailing and grading like “Hey, it ain’t nothing.”). While on the tarmac I learned about the In Travel piece, and then a few days later a nerd publication (a book review) came out, and then . . . my Chinese guy was still all too happy to take my laundry for the Fluff and Fold, the clerk at the grocery still eyed my basket of fruit and Ginger beer (the boozy kind) with a raised eyebrow and look of uncertainty, and chumps still feel the need to whistle at me up on Queens Blvd.  Whatevs.  Though, while having a drink at the locale dive (well one of them, it is El Barrio after all) some dude called me a millennial (that happened on campus last month, still not funny).  I was all, “dude if that’s a pick up line you need to work on that shit.  Look at my shoes.  I’m not millennial.” What did I have on that night? Docs.  It was raining. 

If my Lupus would stop hating me long enough I would go for a run . . . well, I’m swamped these days so  . . . running in my sleep count?

Finally: Me Made is upon us.  All the sewists know it, and my cadre of peeps show their support for the painful display of selfies in May (several started asking last month about it).  For those not in the know, over zealous folks like me (scores of us actually) showcase our makes everyday for the month of May (as a way of seeing holes in wardrobes, showing that me made isn't clutzy, ugly shift dresses that don't fit, and--well--because we think it's kinda cool).  As always, I’m travelling this month (again).  I’ll be in New Hampshire for a short weekend and then at the end of the month I make my annual trek to Louisville to score AP exams and see college and high school peeps (and drink all the bourbon).  So, rest assured the scenery won’t always be the makeshift captures of this week between our May mini monsoon in Yankeeland and half seconds of grey overcast. 

Day one: Sloan leggings in heavy weight cotton lycra.  I heart those.  One Seamwork Abderdeen, that is now on its way out (why? Fit.  Never fit right).  A ball cap while I did an online assessment shift on a Sunday and wrote and graded . . . auto, rinse, repeat. 

Day two: I was so damned proud of myself . . . a dress, tights, and I looked spif.  What you can’t see? I spilled f-ing coffee on my lap in morning rush hour.  Classy, I know.

That’s a Mesa dress, a store bought cardi (that A) I heart coral like I dig mangoes and peach beverages and B) a small number of things are store bought as I will wear them until they croak). The tights . . . I bought those in Romania, as it was cold on the beach front.  I dig them.  Secret: they totally fit.  I figured they were going to be a one-time wear at the conference . . .

Day three: My tried and true Colette Cinnamon dress with silk from an Amsterdam flea market.  Lace . . . I still don’t know how it ended up in my stash (or so much of it!).  Cardi . . . a grey cardi is the spring version of a black one.  And, the rain . . .so much rain.  Oh, and I flashed the block I’m on that morning.  How? Purse on my shoulder caused my dress to ride.  Classy, I know.  Aren’t you glad I’m so honest?

Day four: One Seamwork Wembly cardi, one Savannah Cami (with some sweet rayon I bought in Antalya), and one pair of jeans.  Those jeans are the sunshine embroidery inside the fly that I posted on IG one night, and they came from the theory fabric from Mood.  Neon pink Cotton and Steel horses round out the pocket linings.  The pattern  . . . I’m told I should do a full on blog on it: I forced two patterns to breed, added some alts, and I call them Nessa Jeans.  They do make my ass look nice.  I say give me a week or two, as I’ve got three pair from the matchup now.  Well worn.  That Theory fabric . . . It gives a little.  I bet using it on Heather’s Morgan Jeans pattern would do well for a sized down pair.  Why? Slimmer on day one.  Boyfriend on day two.  Auto. Rinse. Repeat.  And . . . I never have to go jeans shopping again.  That, alone, saves my liver.  There’s some serious top stitching on those too.  Sewing and topstitching keep me moderately sane. I've made a few pairs to get the fit on this hybrid pattern . . . Nessa Jeans for life.  

The toil of the week/day  . . . 

Day five: working from home on an 80 hour week.  When did I have time to write this? When I should have been sleeping.

Sloan leggings, extended four inches to cover my feet (they get cold yo). That’s wicking fabric too . . .   And, when I run in them I get the hipster 80s retro look.  Ha! One tee.  One Archer made on the loose side. 

I should note, as you prob already figured, the things underneath come from my sewing machine too.  No, I’m still not modeling.  Maybe, maybe if you buy me dinner first. 

And that my dears is a wrap.  Since it is May, see you next week—rain or shine—with a barrage of selfies to promote using less, using what you have, and creating more.  Seriously, if you haven’t tried it yet . . . up the impact of your dollar with something self-created.  Granted, I’m a long overdue insomniac, so I sleep less than any human should, but . . . crafting your favorite jeans, bag, or tee . . . there’s something calming and reassuring about it.  Of course, when you don’t have to endure ill lighted dressing rooms anymore that’s another bag of artistic delights. And that, I think I’ll write more about next week as more than one person has messaged me asking me to mind dump about what drives a person to sew, knit, or idle time away with a sewing machine and needles.