In the Shadow of the Seam

I'm making a top based on a Balenciaga 2013 Resort Top.  I added Princess Seams and, of course, since we cannot see the back in a picture, I have completely made that up.

Was talking about how I was planning on finishing the cut-outs in the front with the Herve Lerge patternmaker, who is very German. I decribed the type of binding I intended to use and she didn't understand. I'd always been told stitch in the ditch binding. It took us a while but we realized that Germans considered it stitching in the shadow of the seam.

3/16" stitch in the shadow of the seam binding. I love that. How poetic.

Stitch in the Shadow of the Seam.

I'm totally using that from now on.

texting fun time

Júst fôúnd öut I cån èaßîlÿ hævę łęttêrš bé ālphábėtįçâlly mûltí-lîñguâl. This changes everything. Allen ist wündebar. And yet Çêst la víe.

Play Fighters

A warm, sunny Saturday on the heels of some hard weeks at work, I found myself in an escape route from man, dogs, and all the noise of the world. The good people of Long Beach would mostly likely blanket themselves across the shoreline, their children running, screaming, and kicking sand on all who had hopelessly come for the sounds of waves crashing. I knew better than to hope for recluse at the beach.
Better to blanket myself on the cool grass in a park, under decades old trees pretending to be in a forest. There is peace in El Dorado Park, near the golf course, tucked away from children's ballparks and their barking terriers.
There is shade, grass, wind in the leaves far above, and there is a view of picnickers and barbequing parties - just far away enough for their noise to feel like a murmur, but close enough (or perhaps, just downwind) to taste their food on an inhale. Starving artists do not usually enjoy the smells of food they cannot provide for themselves, but at that moment it was welcome in the form of a tell-tale sign of the season.
I wrote in my journal about the various things I should be writing about but am not. I read two Bradbury short stories. I people-watched. The latter was my favorite.
A  man & a woman left a party they were gathered at, walking side by side, talking casually. At a moment, they looked at each other sharply, broke apart, putting about three feet between them, laughing. Simultaneously, they both raised their fists, elbows bent sharply, and hopped around each other like defensive kangaroos. Still laughing, they began sparring, tapping each other instead of a punch, until they were so drunk with laughter they couldn't hop, or even hold their fists up.
They collapsed upon one another, each holding the other up.
With arms wrapped around on another, they walked on, laughing and laughing and laughing.
I couldn't hear the laughter, though. I strained my hearing, told myself to focus for the sound, but could not hear the laughter for my life. I could only see it.
Whereas only seconds earlier, I had been happy and at peace, in that moment I was incredibly alone and silent and hungry.

Ladies with Ladies

Since I'll never have the energy, design talent, or financial backing to successfully start this fashion line (nor do I posses the specific morals it requires to create affordable clothing by using slave-like off-shore labor - I can create patterns and look the other way, but if my name was on it, I couldn't do it & no one would be able to afford my clothes), I'm going to put the idea out there in h.

The idea is a clothing company for women whose body type is not the "traditional" body type that the standard fit block is based off of. The current fit block that 90% of companies use doesn't work for a staggering population of women. Women who are starved enough for ready to wear clothing that properly fits without the added expense of a tailor's bill.

"LADIES WITH LADIES" will cater to women with a range of waist sizes, bust sizes, and hip sizes, but specifically women with the hour glass frame not represented in current clothing stores. This is not a plus size women's store. Plus sizes are built around a body that has the same proportion of the basic block, but wider all over. LADIES WITH LADIES is a clothing line for women with more dramatic curves than the average fit model.

LADIES WITH LADIES would represent a woman who has a 48" bust, 28" waist, and 40" hips. That woman would not fit properly into a common ready-to-wear size, but also would not be appropriate for a plus-size ready-to-wear size. This is a woman who can either make clothes herself (unlikely in modern culture), can fork up the money for custom clothing (unlikely, given the modern economy) or could shop at FOR LADIES WITH LADIES, which would sell clothes similar to men's ready to wear sizing, by measurements and not the strangely accepted "XS-S-M-L-XL/0-2-4-6-8-10-12-14) sizing.

Some of the main arguments against women being offered measurement-specific sizing like this is that women do not like the reality check of their actual measurements, that clothing would be wasted if created for people whose measurements "did not exist," and that there's something inherently "unfeminine" about a woman seeking clothing using a men's sizing system. What these creepy size-fascists don't understand is that a dress made with specific measurements can be mass produced, it just takes slightly more research. That research takes work and money that companies aren't willing to front out of greed and laziness, stress on the laziness.

A little marketing and social networking could make this research mildly time-consuming and not for a loss of profit. Women are more than capable of measuring themselves and there are definitely enough women dissatisfied with the current sizing system that they'd be perfectly happy to anonymously enter those measurements on a website created to gather information for the purpose of catering to women with "uncommon" (or rather, unrepresented) sizes. A company could take this information and use it to organize size ratios, percentages, and geographical/marketing information so where certain body types with certain tastes/aesthetics are located. A woman in Montana may not have the same wardrobe requirements of a woman in Miami, but they may have almost the same measurements, and this should be factored in the research, as well.

Finally, affordability is a constant struggle that the American public fights for in terms of fashion. How does one create measurement specific-sizing while maintaining low cost? Off-shore manufacturing would be a must, but also, using on-the-spot tailoring at every retail location, free of charge for LADIES WITH LADIES customers would be key. This way, clothing can be started in another country, with seams only stitched together for fitting purposes, but entirely finished on location in the store where the customer has the fitting. The brunt of the labor could be sewn ahead of time, and the finishing of labor can be done here. It creates even further freedom in the sizing, adds a personal element to the shopping experience, and also feeds people's eagerness to see items made locally without the added costs of something being made entirely locally.

Every industry fears change, even when it is as desperately needed as the upheaval of the current sizing method.  Waiting for a current industry leader to create this change would be a hopeless endeavor. It takes someone entrepreneurial to open up shop and make change.

"We are an Audience for Miracles" -RB 7/2008

Late last year, my brother convinced me that we should write together and that maybe we should start with short stories. For a really long time, I have held off on writing because everything I started felt chick-lit-ish and so, defeated by my own lack of depth, I stuck to goofy blog posts and notebooking. When it was suggested that we collaborate, I was excited and researched writing competitions he and I could possibly enter. Writer's Digest has a bunch every year with different categories. The one that peaked my interest the most was Science Fiction, though my own inspiration was lacking. So, I started reading "The Martian Chronicles" and three-ish chapters in, I knew I'd found my new favorite genus. I still haven't written one word, but I have not stopped reading and loving the genre.

When I heard about Ray Bradbury's death the other day, I felt a) embarrassment that I'd assumed he was already dead and that I could have tried to meet this bad-ass man but that now I'd really never meet him, and b) that I should buy some of his work. I did this two ways. I wanted some short stories for my Kindle so I could begin reading right away. I also wanted a physical book, since the man loved real books and distrusted e-books.

So, I went on Amazon right away and bought a book of 100 most celebrated Bradbury stories. It was $4.99, being sold by Long Beach Goodwill, and reported to be in 'good condition, with some writing in it.' I figured some student had probably underlined passages and that maybe it would add to the dog-earedness of the book.

There is no writing in it except for what is in this picture:

I remember someone saying that when Acres of Books closed three years ago, they donated their inventory, but I have no idea to where. I also know Ray Bradbury had been a regular at that book store, along with many writers, and now I'm aware that he'd even written about it.

Is it really possible I unknowingly bought a book signed by Bradbury, purchased on the day he died? Can that really happen? If so, that is quite a coincidence. But how would Goodwill not understand they had a signed copy? Or did they know, but not feel that it mattered?


Fake or real, this has opened my eyes to so much. Fake or real, I will never part with that book.

Life. Is. Crazy.

On the Ballot

Today I inadvertently smacked a really heavy bag into a frail, waify girl in too tall of heels. She didn't fall over or anything, but she was hit pretty hard while we were both exiting the shuttle from the parking lot to work.

I said, "sorry." I showed the appropriate emotions to let her know I meant it. I tried to make eye contact so she could see how mortified I was at this mistake.

She said, "it's okay..." in that vague tone where you know, it's not okay. She didn't return the eye contact, my sincerity obviously undetected.

Then I walked inside and when I stopped to pull out my ID, I dropped the bag... on someone's open toed super tall shoe.

I looked up.

Same girl.

"Oh my God! I am really sorry."

"Stay away from me."

Yes. I am officially epically smooth. I should run for mayor.

Mayor of Awkwardia.


P.S. Why the hell would you walk that close to someone with a heavy bag? Why? I only take partial responsibility for the bag-on-the-toe incident. 

oh, to be great...

One of the many wonderful things about living in Southern California is how warm it is year round. One of the deterrents is that it's always ice cream weather. I used to associate the sound of the ice cream man with late spring, the freedom of summer, and the happiest 15 minutes one dollar can buy you. Then again, I grew up in a a small suburban town in New Jersey, where there was an Italian Ice truck that drove around playing "Popeye the Sailorman," who would only stop if you chased him down yelling, "Stooooop!!" The chase was half the fun. But, you never heard that song more than twice a day. you never hated the damn Italian Ice truck, or Popeye, for that matter.

In Southern California, that truck doesn't carry Italian Ices, but generic shitty vending machine-style ice cream snacks; it plays "It's a Small World," and it parks near a school for an hour every day to lure kiddies and mommies away from soccer games and practice. Living within earshot of a school, I now hate ice cream trucks with a passion usually withheld for those who thoroughly oppose equality.

I might be crazy. I might  have a few blood cells that are frenemies with my other blood cells. I might excel in a cut throat industry, but 99.2% of the time I am a lovely and delightful human being... that is, until the time of day when Mr. Ice Cream Truck parks his device of audible torture two blocks from my house. From approximately 5:45 to 7:15 pm, I am a fire breathing dragon, ready to melt away Mr. Ice Cream Man's stupid business.

In my defense for what I am about to tell you, Reader, playing the same song continuously year round should be classified as torture. It should be banned as a direct violation of a Constittional law forbidding 'cruel and unusual punishment,' in the form of noise pollution. It should be fought against and banned. It is directly disrespectful to those who live near a school to have to endure, nightly, the banal sounds of "It's a Small World." He uses it, most likely, to trigger the same excitement children feel at Disney world, which is two towns over, where one is most likely to hear that song played over and over again. No one lives close enough to Disney, though, to become sick of the music. Living in close proximity to a school shouldn't be a regrettable location. It's a drug free zone, the homeless are kept away, there's a positive police presence, and your neighbors are quiet, family-oriented, and polite to each other. It shouldn't be a location where people are aloud to market unhealthy treats at high volume every single day.

One day, I was coming home from work. I hadn't had a bad day. Actually, it was a productive, good day - full of good news and pleasant conversation. It's always nice leaving work feeling like you bonded with someone. But then, I came home and Mr. Ice Cream Man was already parked outside, music blaring - a failed siren call since no children surrounded his truck. What a small world, after all; here I was face-to-face, alone with my nemesis (well, alone if you didn't count the populated soccer game one field away, but we were alone on the street).

I pulled over, window rolled down, honked my horn a few times to get his attention. He looked up and I shouted out, "YOU'RE A BAD MAN!! SHAME ON YOU!! THAT NOISE POLLUTION HAS EARNED  YOU A PLACE IN HELL! IN HELL!!!!! BAD!!!"

I did not stop while I yelled this, just slowed the car to a crawl. It was important to stay in motion in case he decided to leap out and attack. I didn't expect him to come after me, but you never know how people are going to react. We were in Long Beach, after all. I mean, Snoop Dogg grew up there - not on my side of town, of course, but in the same town nevertheless and I didn't know in which neighborhood Mr. Ice Cream Man resided. If I did, I might have slashed his tires and trashed his speakers ages ago. In other words, his secret ice cream lair was better left a mystery from the scary woman on the preppy side of town.

I did notice, as I pulled away, that the soccer game had stopped. I don't think it stopped because of my yelling, but it did give everyone there, players and onlookers alike, a chance to look away from the field and check out the crazy lady screaming at their local frozen dairy hero. Children and parents stood staring at me, their gaping mouths wide open in silent shock. At the end of the glance in that direction, before my eyes swept back to the road, I saw one parent was smiling.

I drove on, shocked at what I had actually done, curious as to whether the amused parent agreed with me or just loved a good old fashioned shit show, and simultaneously pleased... I'd had told that horrible man what I thought of him. Odd behavior, maybe, but brave behavior. I did one thing that day which scared me... and that brings me back to the Eleanor Roosevelt point at the top of this post.

She's claiming the stupid people gossip about other people, average people talk about what went down, while intelligent people debate theology, philosophy, aesthetics, and morality. In all this, I discussed Mr. Noise Pollution, who, despite his obnoxia, is a person; I discussed the glorious event of me  drive-by-yelling at him; and I discussed the ideas behind my actions which I believe wholeheartedly. According to Roosevelt's theory, I am all at once small, average, and great. Why didn't someone think to ask her at the time, "What if you discuss all three at once?"Because that's what I'd like the answer to.