Marm

So it's nearly fall. The nights and mornings are getting bitterly cold, and earlier in the week we woke to frost on the ground. It was time to pull the plants in. My green onions are huge and going yellow quickly; time to use 'em up fast. I did what any self-respecting old Marm would do and whipped up a batch of cheese and green onion scones.

Yum!

Then I put on this dress, mailed a letter of complaint to a local business, and knit myself a couch cover. I was supposed to go to my weekly meeting of the Old Biddies Club, but I'm on probation for being too crotchety.

Nah, just kidding. You guys know I can't knit. 

Anyway, I picked up that dress at Goodwill for 7 dollars. Highway robbery, I know, but here's what you don't know about that floral monstrosity up there. It has a full circle skirt, and pockets. Those of you who know me (ie. probably everyone bothering to read this blog) know that I think it's a crime that so much womens' clothing is sans-pockets. You think I *want* to fumble frantically through my purse every time my phone goes off? Or that I even want to carry that purse when I go out? No. I like pockets. Every dress, skirt, and pair of pants on Earth should have them. 

But I digress. The dress above is not worth 7 dollars, but the dress I thought I could make? Yeah. I thought, with a simple chop of about a foot or twelve off the skirt, this would make a really cute, 50s style sundress. The top was a little wonky though; initially I thought the neckline was cute but after putting it on again at home and wandering around for a bit to figure out the fit, I realized that it was just a bit too high to be comfortable. The top was also really tight across the top of the bust, so there was a weird, flattening effect that wasn't exactly becoming. 

Chop! In order to improve the fit, I cut a significant dip in the neckline. I also discovered some fabric damage on the top back  where the fabric was fraying right at the seams, so I cut that down as well.

I sewed a zig-zag stitch over the edges of the raw fabric to help control fraying, as well as attach the 3 layers of the dress-top to each other (2 fabric layers with some sort of shaper in between). Then a little seam binding in a complimentary colour went all the way around the neckline to cover up that raw edge without the annoyance of having to roll over a curved edge. 

Fiiiiiiiine Percale

I put my dress on again and drew a little chalk line where I wanted the shortened hem to hit. With the dress laid out on the floor again (because my table is too full of junk right now and I was trying to watch TV at the same time) I measured  out my new hem and chopped again.

Now because a sewing project just isn't a sewing project without at least 1 big, annoying screw up, I started sewing a layer of the same seam binding from the neckline around the bottom hem as well. I measured it quick and then instead of pinning, which was time consuming, just set it as I went.

And then about a half a foot from the end, I realized I hadn't measured properly. Big gap. No extra seam binding, because I was using a pack I got from the Reuse Centre. I'm assuming it's from about 19-dickety-6 because it cost 10 cents new, so I didn't have a lot of hope of finding a match at a store.

So out came the seam ripper. Of course. Many minutes later, I was winding the seam binding back up and double-folding my fabric for a new hem. Dress back on, tried it out. Weird gaping at the neckline. I put in a little panel and tried my dress back on. I had thought a belt might fix the slight bag caused by the elastic waistline but I just ended up with a weird, tucked-in look the second I moved. Darts. Put the dress back on. That's the issue with making something for yourself - it's very difficult to pin and fit something that is on your own body, so you're constantly taking everything on and off.

The fit was pretty well as good as I was going to get, but there was still something wrong. Maybe it was this:

Yikes.

Okay, that's pretty damn loud. I knew that in Goodwill, but I thought reducing the sheer amount of it would help. And it did, but not quite enough. So it was time to dump this dress into a blue dye bath. I went easy on it, just enough to tone the brightness down.

Side by side, you can see there's still a lot of colour and the pattern is still nice and clear, but the yellow and pink have been toned down. It's a little less painful to look at. I might make it darker yet, but I think I'm happy with it for the moment.

So...done?

Calligraphy Pen

My affection for all things old-timey and magical is no secret. Beneath this female exterior beats the heart of an eighty year old British professor-adventurer who may or may not be a wizard. So imagine my pleasure upon finding at work, treasure of treasures, a calligraphy set. I have spent long moments in art stores, stationary shops, and curio holes looking at fancy sets, eyeing the price tags, wondering how I could justify the purchase, asking myself what I'd even do with something so frivolous. Lucky me. 

In looks, pens are modern, ugly, plastic things, nothing like I would imagine finding in a 16th century baron's study. But their tips, not angle-tipped felt markers, but glorious metal nibs. These are fountain pens, real liquid ink flowing out from cartridges, so that you have to keep the cap on, keep the pen upright lest you come back to desk and find it covered in black. 

Three different pens, three different widths, things written with them are somehow more magical than regular pens.

Excited with my find, I squirrelled it home, selected the fine tipped pen, and loaded it with the blackest ink in the set. In the box was a notepad of thick paper with which to practice. I put my new pen to the page, and here is what came out. 

Like I said, magical.

Hot Mess

Okay, this is the sort of dumb thing that nobody wants to read about, but I feel that it's necessary to share anyway.

Like most adults in western society, I wear antiperspirant on a daily basis. In fact, after having used the product day in, day out for the last 15 or so years, one might expect that I've become something of an expert in the application of it. Today proved me wrong.

I went to work out today, and halfway through my shower afterwards I realized I'd left a chair jammed in the door of the workout room in an attempt to not die from a combination of heat and shellac fumes from the pool reconstruction. Now, I live in the sort of building where some old biddy can be counted on to notice every wrong-doing within a 5km radius. I can only assume that one of them was watching me from her apartment window, watch in hand and frown on face as she waited for someone to return and take care of the wayward door.

In my hurry to get dressed so I could go and fix this grievous error, I managed to pit-stick myself to the utmost degree. This was not your typical "streak on the shirt hem" pit-sticking. No.

Imagine a 5 year old putting on makeup.

Now you have an idea of the sort of mess I made of my dress. Thank god for the old "cotton sock" trick, though even that required some vigorous scrubbing because apparently I ground it all in there pretty good.

I'm really not sure how I managed this, but I've taken a picture and included some handy commentary. Please ignore the mess in the background. Now, since I cleaned myself up already, I've done a very high-tech computer simulation of where the pit-stick ended up. 

I'm a failure of a human being.

Final Resting Place (The Dead Bee Chronicles, Part II)

I had to. Honestly, I did. 

After a rather awkward and undignified collection of the body, during which one, possibly more, of Dead Bee's legs fell off, I laid him to rest in my azalea plant.

You were an inspiration to us all, Dead Bee. You will be missed.

The Dead Bee Chronicles

There's a dead bee on the stairs leading up to my apartment. A proper, fuzzy bee, mind you. None of this wasp crap. He's a very darkly coloured bee, against a fairly dark and patterned carpet, so the first time I saw him, I thought he was a clump of dirt. I'm not sure when exactly I realized he wasn't, but I remember being a little surprised. I mean, how did he get there? It's not inconceivable that a bee would fly into my building and die somewhere, but the stairs seems a weird place to do it. Also, has anyone else noticed him? In the early days, I shrugged my shoulders and figured he'd be vacuumed up soon enough.

I've been walking past this bee every day for at least two weeks now, very possibly longer. I take that particular staircase on my way back from working out, and every day as I make the approach, I wonder to myself if the dead bee is still there. I walk up, I look into that little left-hand corner on the seventh or eighth step, and there he lies, a husk of bee-ness forever lost.

I think I'm starting to feel some sense of affection for this dead bee.

Today I caught myself wondering if I should do something about him. His little bee-corpse is just sitting there, waiting to be ground into the carpet by some careless shoe, and that thought makes me a little sad. I have considered moving him on more than one occasion, but then what should I do with him? I think I'd feel guilty if I just threw him in the garbage, but what else does one do with a dead bee? Should I give him a proper burial? That just seems ridiculous. First off, it would require a special trip to the stairs, with a baggie or a piece of paper towel or something because I am NOT picking up a dead bee with my bare hands, followed by a concerted effort to pick up the dead bee and take it somewhere (likely one of the plants on my balcony) where I would dig a tiny hole, deposit the dead bee, and then bury him.

THEN WHAT?

Honestly, what kind of adult person in their right mind considers going to fetch a dead bee so that she can bury it, because she feels bad for its dead little bee-body lying on the stairs?

The only conclusion I can come to is that in the course of my exposure to the body, I've somehow become possessed by the spirit of the dead bee. Perhaps he was murdered and I need to suss out the perpetrator, or he needs me to deliver a message to his queen or something. I have no idea and he doesn't seem to be offering up answers. All I know is that there's a dead bee on the stairs, and he doesn't seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

The Twitter Conundrum

I have a Twitter account. This, in itself, is nothing amazing. There are, what, like a majillion Twitter accounts out there? No big deal.

I have thus far tweeted a grand total of one time, nearly a full year ago. I made the account purely to write that tweet, as I recall. It was during or slightly after that ridiculous "name the new flavour" contest that Doritos held last summer.

Here, for your enjoyment, is that tweet:

"Sexual connotations aside, "Intense Pickle" is the most hilarious name for a chip flavour I've ever heard."

That's it. That is the magic of brilliant mind, but it still isn't the amazing part.

Now, you may at this point be asking yourself what the hell's so great about my dumb Twitter account, and here's what it is:

I have two followers.

I don't know these people, and they presumably don't know me, but somehow they saw that tweet and decided that what I had to say was important enough to keep paying attention. One of them decided to follow me shortly after that miracle sentence was released to the world, but the really funny thing is that my second follower found me LAST WEEK. Nearly a year after typing it, the power of my tweet reached across the internet to grab this pour soul's attention. One can only imagine how many followers I will have next year!

So obviously, the key to world domination is to keep saying dumb stuff about food. After much thought and careful consideration, I've decided to tweet the following:

"Canned potatoes are handy, but sometimes taste weird."

I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Name Could Use Work?

So as I mentioned in my first post, my life is kind of wangly at the moment. As a result, I am often thinking of ways to make it less so. One of those ways is wacky business ideas that are maybe actually viable. Maybe.

This brings me to the first of my retail store ideas.

Well endowed ladies of the world, have you ever been to a store only to encounter breast-related frustration? Time and again you put on what you thought was a modest shirt only to find that you are showing a mile of cleavage? Button up shirts gaping at the chest? Decorative seams and princess cuts cutting you right across the nips? And perhaps the worst of all, the most sinister thing known to man-kind, The Granny Bra.

Sure, they sell up to double D at La Senza and Victoria's Secret, but you know the frustration of actually finding something above a C cup that fits properly! That doesn't turn your twin lovelies into one giant superboob? Like an extra giant roll of fat right there on your chest? And the luck that you find one that appears to fit, and two washes later it's stretched out, misshapen, and makes you look worse than if you weren't wearing a bra at all? Oh yes, ladies, you know my frustration. God forbid you hit *above* the magical average. For a society so obsessed with breasts, we certainly don't care much for ladies above a B.

So you pack yourself off to the fancy bra store, where they sell real, honest to God, supportive undergarments at exorbitant prices, but hey they're worth it because they work and last. You think that maybe, finally, things are right in the world. And you go back for your yearly splurge, and you realize, gradually, that everything is the same from year to year. You're lucky if they have more than 5 styles that fit you to choose from. And your poor heart weeps beneath those enormous bosoms of yours. Everything is lacy, frilly, and you wanted something young and fun. It's girly when you wanted badass, it's Lolita Meets Granny Panties, with straps a mile wide (but don't worry, they're covered in ribbon and bows so they're still stylish!) and cups up to your chin.

Don't even get me started on the sports bra. Oh boy, do not get me started on the misnomer that is the 'sports bra.'

Well, my dears, I have had enough. I wash my hands of you, cheap and trendy underwear stores, and of you too, scary Eastern-European woman who owns the lingerie store near my house!

Get ready to welcome to the world, Titty Jugs. Even though I'm not sure Alberta laws would permit me to name a store that.

Titty Jugs: Take back your Boobs!


Titty Jugs: For all your breasterly needs!

Why Titty Jugs, you ask? Because it's ridiculous good fun. Boobs should be fun again, and fun for the people that they're actually attached to. They should be an asset, and not a hindrance to dressing oneself, to finding nice clothes. Never ever have I met another woman with breasts D or over, who didn't have a bugger of a time with them. Imagine, if you will, going to a store and having a choice. Buying a bathing suit with honest-to-god underwire in it instead of that sharty little elastic 'bra' inside. Not being relegated to a single ugly drawer in a store full of beautiful, itty bitty things. Tank tops with no shelf, which only serves to pull your top down to Nipple Alert 5. A place where the curvy twosome are properly accounted for, designed for, and given the respect that they deserve!

Dream a dream with me, ladies.

Demand better, demand Titty Jugs.