Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

A twenty dollar bet, and a bottle of wine, led to a discussion--well persuasion--that I launch a pattern or two.  I snorted.  Then, the conversation again, that I should launch a bag since I make them in my sleep it seems.  A few supporters later, and I give you the first of #ivebeensewinganddrinking (yes, the hashtag is the umbrella of the pattern(s) I've been hashing . . . because, why not?!). And . . . since every good bag and piece of clothing becomes loved with a story and purpose, I give you one here.   Yoga is like candy.  At some point nearly everyone looks at it with glee and wonder, lots try it, and scores  in love with it.  Though, yoga gets a bad rap.  Connotations of new wave touchy feely types, with little understanding of grounded life and nature, often fill the popular mind.  Eh.  Here’s the deal: Yoga does everything from center breathing, tone muscles, maintain healthy weights, help loose weight, tone for running, ...

Since another tee shirt review, by any sewing blogger, is--well--an easy way out I'll warn you now.  Stripe matching and a spy movie set are really the reason for this posting.  The tee shirt is really just the train car du jour.   A Sloppy Josephine , slightly shrunken, in red and grey stripes, made perfect for a day of throw your clothes on and be done with it.  Cause sometimes you gotta remember that not everything has to be a tailored shirt, a pencil skirt, or a dress requiring heels.   Sometimes a tee and a pair of jeans past their prime are better served with a side of reading, reviewing, and in my case writing and grading.  Always.  Especially as I sprawl in a dying chair, feet on the desk, drinking (oh, who am I kidding . . . guzzling) iced coffee, and tapping away at a keyboard.   Seriously, though, I thought it was time I wore something besides running pants or tatty yoga pants with a Briar or Renfrew white working from ho...

Not long ago it seams I found myself having more than one conversation on the simplicity and relative ease of making little stash bags, as I call them.  I tend to make these up pretty regular, as there are always scraps lying around.  Of course I make them and people swipe them , so it all works out I guess. Also, I had a stash of zippers that worked perfect here, and  . . . it is nice to change your makeup bag in your purse.  How often do we change purses and not that bag? Or not even wash it? Washing it . . . that is also easier when you have a new bag to put your goods into while sudsing the other up. Also, someone I know has never made a bag.  She's made bras, jeans, etc. but not bag.  I won't throw her under the public bus (but I did just email her this link), but I do hope she makes a bag for her purse now.  ;) These bags, well . . . Yup, the contents of my bag.  The blue tin: my sewing kit.  The red...

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 ...

As this year has run, and as I've attested, there has been a bought of Lupus hell and body image horror.  Okay, probably more horror on my end  . . . but still.  No matter how secure a woman is, shit still creeps in.  Everyone, and I mean, everyone has had it at come point.   With that being said, last summer I bought Heather's first pattern--that Bombshell --and some inexpensive black swimsuit material to try it out.  Then I lost the will to scrutinize myself in the mirror, in a swimsuit.  I mean, come on . . . who in the hell enjoys that torture? Even at home, in decent lighting?  So, it sat.  On my shelf.  Glaring at me like a maladjusted bitch ready to pounce.   And then I found myself inventorying my patterns and fabric.  In that midst (which the patterns are nearly half cataloged and the fabric is all noted and marked), I told myself I had  to do this.  Had to do it by summe...