Tin Foil Hats
Perhaps it is a pull of the moon, the extensive rain, or just luck itself but I've got a disproportionate amount of friends wearing tin foil hats as of late. I mean, their local grocery runs out of white bread and it turns into a conspiracy to make them fatter and starve them out. The aforementioned rain makes the wifi slow, it must be government spies looking in to see what they are buying online. And then, while using an iPhone, proclaiming that we are all being controlled by machines. Yeah, there's a relative tin foil hat parade happening around me.
I look to my left. I look to my right. I've got a match people.
Late last week I thought that, perhaps, I was at the apex of it when some ballsy assed mother fucker blew on my shoulder blades. Why yes, while on the seven train and sporting a sundress on a 90+ degree day, I clearly needed a fucking burka. I know . . . I know . . . I totally asked for it.
That being said, I came up with a new plan to protect myself against this growing girth of hats clearly made from foil bought in bulk at the local Costco. I cut up an old tee shirt to make me some crazy pants. Why, yes, crazy pants. Seriously, let's face it . . . sometimes you gotta work it hard to avoid the crazy hats. My sewing machine sufficed this time, and I'm residing on relative basic laws of physics. If opposites attract, then crazy pants should keep these hat wielders away. Amirite? I thought about drinking like I did in my early 20s, but my rheumatologist told me that I have to do that in relative moderation or something about the gnarly Lupus drug I recently started might fry my liver. Yeah, yeah . . . suppress the Lupus flare and listen to the nice lady or drink it up. It really is a hard decision sometimes. I really like her, so I'm all about adulting like a Lupus poster child (most days).
As these things go with me it's not really about the shirt . . . Instead, my friend Nicole wanted to know how to make panties . . . and I've been trying to find an analogy on them, since I'm certain no one wants to read about the piles of bras and underthings I make in the throws of eternal exhaustion and external progression. So I sent her the link to the Rosy Lady Shorts, and as I side eyed those around me I set out to cut.
You cut along the stretch of the fabric, and then you sew the front seam and the back seam.
I look to my left. I look to my right. I've got a match people.
Late last week I thought that, perhaps, I was at the apex of it when some ballsy assed mother fucker blew on my shoulder blades. Why yes, while on the seven train and sporting a sundress on a 90+ degree day, I clearly needed a fucking burka. I know . . . I know . . . I totally asked for it.
That being said, I came up with a new plan to protect myself against this growing girth of hats clearly made from foil bought in bulk at the local Costco. I cut up an old tee shirt to make me some crazy pants. Why, yes, crazy pants. Seriously, let's face it . . . sometimes you gotta work it hard to avoid the crazy hats. My sewing machine sufficed this time, and I'm residing on relative basic laws of physics. If opposites attract, then crazy pants should keep these hat wielders away. Amirite? I thought about drinking like I did in my early 20s, but my rheumatologist told me that I have to do that in relative moderation or something about the gnarly Lupus drug I recently started might fry my liver. Yeah, yeah . . . suppress the Lupus flare and listen to the nice lady or drink it up. It really is a hard decision sometimes. I really like her, so I'm all about adulting like a Lupus poster child (most days).
The photo on the left was in Bulgaria, just about a year ago. The photo on the right--taken this past weekend in NYC--explains why I cut up that tee. I call it "give a girl a couple of inhalers and some steroid sides." You're welcome.
As these things go with me it's not really about the shirt . . . Instead, my friend Nicole wanted to know how to make panties . . . and I've been trying to find an analogy on them, since I'm certain no one wants to read about the piles of bras and underthings I make in the throws of eternal exhaustion and external progression. So I sent her the link to the Rosy Lady Shorts, and as I side eyed those around me I set out to cut.
My friend Nicole doesn't have a serger, so I give you scraps (ahem, her) a picture of zig zag stitching; the seam from the outside; and then . . . if you neurotic you can stitch the seam down so that it won't fray (most knits won't, by the way). It's pretty simple, you hold it taught (not tight: ya know, kinda like holding crazy people . . . not too close, not too loose or they'll get away and run around without their pants on).
See? If just looks like you added a seam for design on the outside. When I made lace ones I do that instead of serging.
With that being said, you layer the center crotch piece with the two body pieces in a burrito fashion, to sew all three in one seam, flipping the crotch in and up, to hide that seam.
If you need to ask why there's a crotch lining in women's panties, then yeah . . . I would say you need a refresher on sex ed more than an urban cocktail these days. But, then again, that could just be me.
I pin those things down like a good parking ticket to a windshield, and then I insert my elastic per desired measurements (you are gonna have to stretch it to fit, just is). . . this time, in an effort to use up what flybys are fluttering in my sewing drawers, I went with a little teal fold over and some lacey, frilled, Mexi-meets-Grecko-meet-Afghani market tacky. I mean, come on? I feel that if ya'll are gonna parade around me with those tin foil hats sculpted in earth-shattering designs the least I can do is add some fancy panties to the mix? Yeah, you totally know what ones I'm wearing on my next date?
Ok, let's pretend I have a date . . . yeah, as of recent they haven't gone well. The last time I let someone get relatively close he said something about a hippo. The evening did not end well. But I digress . . .
Sew, steam the elastic back to shape, and then--ya know--admirer your ability to one up that person three tables over asking the waiter if the coconut oil is organic and if the flax seeds are fresh pressed.
Oh, and have a beer.
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