Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Yes, I said it.  A coat from hell.  Fucking hell. Let's see . . . two months ago I did a muslin.  Upon said muslin, that I will not show you as it was a tatty old sheet and flower placements enhanced my rear, chest, and well . . . for a mulsin it was even ugly.  Kind of looked like Rainbow Bright procreated with Barney. Back to the coat story, shall we.  Two months ago a muslin was made.  Two months later I dove in, after sketching and planning, testing some squares, and . . . I cut into the houndstooth. That's purple silk charmeuse to line it.  China silk to underline it.  Weft fusible interfacing and horsehair rounds it out. Begin to see a pattern here? This, this, is one of those coats you plot and plan as it's gonna be nothing short of whole paycheck.  Though, in theory it is a whole paycheck to, well, last until the day you die. Some pretty stuff . . . eh? The pearl cotton thread is there, but it wasn't used . . . I was, at on...

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved fall, blazers, jeans, and boots. Yea, me.  Blazer, boots . . . skirts and jeans.  All fall, winter, and spring long.  Fall especially  as they stun afainst the blissful fiery backdrop . . . also known as the ghetto end of my block. Along came my pattern stash and some leftover wool from that failed coat of last year.  Fail, you say? Eh, look at the overly puffy sleeves that cave in? And fail, for sure, as I tried her one and OMG just put me in a bonnet, give me a wicker basket, and off to the prairie I go.  Last year she fit.  This year she's atrocious and big. McCalls 5188 came on que.  I plotted this one, using my tailoring guide, making notes . . . I drafted the muslin. Here I need to note that a muslin is a piece you make to find the fit.  Muslin are not clothes you wear, unless you make them from clothing fabric as a "wearable muslin." I usual...

Sometimes you have those moments when nothing will really manifest and complete itself.  That . . . that is me as of late. Piles of work come and go, piles more feeling neglected, stacks staring me down, and stacks more waiting to be found.  This is the nature of life, I presume. These days I'm sorely attempting to finish edits on two articles and one book, yet abusive emails and demands beyond the caveat of my station consume my fading hours and minutes.  There are days, like today, when I know that I will never keep up.  Catching up is a mere fantasy fading in the summer days as it turns to fall.  Of course, there's also a bit of writer's block.  That, I know what that is from . . . So, instead you press on and you look up from your computer screen, riddled with virtual characters streaming together sentences of relative coherence, and a natural beauty arises devoid of a filter.* And then you wallow with a mutt by your side, to only have her ...