SUCK IT BEANGIRL.

dearest diary,

OMG!!! today was the BEST DAY EVER!!!!! i totally fixed my pretty spring dress ✿! you should have seen beangirl's face when i walked into concert choir! last week she laughed SO HARD in home ec when i messed up cutting it out-- well, laugh's on her, because....

TYLER ASKED ME TO THE DANCE!!!

i know!!! she'd gonna HURL when she finds out! i mean, i'm SO not into tyler, everybody knows i'm going steady with ♥ ruggy ♥.

but i'm gonna let her sweat it out until colorguard practice this weekend. she DESERVES it, diary!

☆, oona.

ps: she brought a ❝picture❞ of her tunic in today. whatever, diary. my dress is a vintage pattern, mccall's 5490, it has an invisible zip and facing and handsewn blind hems and everything. i bet she bought that tunic at delia's! HA!

the long and winding line

the cupcake goddess wondered what's on peeps' sewing desks at the moment.

not much. 

however, many things happened this weekend, including snagging a copy of "pattern magic" at the ever enthralling chunk of new york that is the strand. the line there is often long and confusing. no one knows where it begins, it intersects with shoppers, it winds through aisles filled with goodness, and invariably someone will stop and pick something up before moving ahead in line, making the line appear longer than it is and generally pissing people off. it went a little something like this:

......................................................

oona stands patiently in the long and winding line at the strand, happily clutching a discounted copy of pattern magic. this book, she is certain, will change her sewing rut, well worth fifteen minutes of waiting. suddenly the line bolts forward as cashiers return from breaks. the gentleman in front of her is distracted by a brightly colored kiosk, and pauses to consider as the line ahead of him moves forward. the un-gentleman behind oona is not amused. he addresses oona.)

un-gentlemen: the line is MOVING.

oona turns her gaze and calmly replies.

oona: i think he's looking at something.

un-gentleman: MOVE, he's not buying anything.

oona: i'm sorry, would you please repeat that?

un-gentleman: i said he's not buying anything.

oona: alright.

the distracted customer has stepped aside, and oona closes the gap. un-gentleman finds his voice again.

un-gentleman: what did you THINK i said?

oona: i wasn't sure what you said, but it seemed rude, so i asked you to repeat it.

un-gentleman: well i don't appreciate some STRANGER calling me RUDE.

oona: (shrugging happily) that's okay. i'm done talking to you.

turning her attention to her magic book, oona moves forward. un-gentleman proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes in line demonstratively offering "excuse me's" and "gesundheits" and "no, after YOU's" to everyone in his line of sight.

.....................................................

in which i freak out upon reflection

i was on a semi-crowded local subway train at the start of rush hour. i like to stand just in front of the doors and play solitaire on my phone, it's distracting, but not enough to miss what's going on around you. so, there's this guy sitting a couple feet from me, clutching a plastic bag to his chest, jittery. it's new york, big deal. but further discreet observance while sliding aces around proved disturbing. it was 19 degrees outside. he wore a flimsy knee length trench coat. sneakers that were several sizes too small, tied very tightly. no scarf or gloves. khakis and a button down. clothes that were bland-- not new, not old, and definitely not suited for the chill outside. speaking of dead-of-winter, he was sweating. a LOT. lips occasionally parting while eyeing everyone on the train, quickly and nervously.

there was something sturdy inside his plastic bag.

as we pulled into the 34th street station, the little no-nonsense voice inside me told me to get off the train, even if there wasn't another train in the station to get on. i HATE to get off a successfully moving train and wait. but this voice likes to bite me in the ass if i don't listen. lo and behold, an express pulled in. with great nonchalance i strolled across the platform, assumed my usual position inside the car, and resumed my game of solitaire. 

i glanced up CIA style, eyes only, as the recently abandoned local train prepared to pull away. as the doors slid closed, i saw the head of jittery man slowly rise. he walked to the edge of the doors, stopping an inch in front of them, and calmly stared directly at me as they slid closed. just stared. i raised my head and returned the look. we continued to stare until his train was out of sight. 

either i'm not as discreet an observer as i think, or that was one freaky freaking freak of a moment.

my hump: the apparently bootylicious maxi skirt.

i have to clean the house today.

instead, i will procrastinate with a post on a much neglected blog (said neglection, pinky-swear, to end now, with no boring excuses for past behavior.)

lately i've been sewing sans pattern. mostly because i'm completely and utterly disappointed when the pattern made garment doesn't magically fit me like a glove. this could have something to do with not making a muslin, trying it on periodically, or you know, checking the measurements, but whatever. maybe further reading over at the cupcake goddess will provide some insight, but for now i'm winging it.

this maxi skirt is made from a many colored seersucker, dollar a yard (my favorite). i cut two hee-uge squares, basted the side seams and used the stripes to form pleats until my waist was snugly wrapped, stitched the pleats down, threw a couple darts in the back, then inserted ye olde invisible zipper.

the oona parental units breeze into town every so often for a sophisticated lunch with daughter & son in law (read: we are on a mission to find the fanciest & cheapest prix fixes in town, and have done quite well so far). it's becoming a tradition, and i like to wear something handmade. something comfortable so that i can also stuff myself.

that said, would you consider this to be a sexy number? form fitting? showcasing, specifically, the derriere? eh, not so much. a pervert biker, however, whole-heartedly disagreed. he found it sexy enough to quickly and quietly pedal up behind me on the sidewalk in order to grab my ass.

yes, that's right. that's the view this loser had. 4 yards of fabric. here's how it went:

(it is a warm spring day. birds sing. for the first time in months, new yorkers bask in the sun. oona strolls happily, smiling at patrons sitting at a sidewalk cafe, off to her own outdoor luncheon. suddenly, she hears the sound of a bicycle, quite close, and a hand grabs her left butt cheek. a red shirted bicyclist pedals casually away.)

oona: JACKASS! I HOPE YOU GET HIT AND DIE!

(the patrons at the sidewalk cafe, unaware of oona's predicament, stare in horror at the now insane new yorker ruining their spring lunch.)

i still love the skirt. and i'm plotting exactly what i will do if i ever hear a bicycle behind me again. it involves an elbow and the full hundred and ten pounds of my weight. 

okay you win.

firstly, thank you all so much for the happy birthday wishes! i would add a grinning emoticon here if i knew how.

so here's the story. one hot day in downtown LA, i decided to take advantage of a long lunch break and frolic in the garment district. there's a 4 block radius of fabric shops there, surrounded by several streets straight out of the crackhouse scene in jungle fever. one wrong turn and you are truly in some kind of danger. i know this because i made about twenty wrong turns. luckily tank was the perfect disguise. 

i arrived safely, found the only unclaimed metered space (it was my birthday week, after all), and put my game face on. it was a busy saturday, with shop owners vying for attention. one particularly shady dude whispered as i walked past: "a dollar a yard. a dollar a yard." i pretended, in my best new yorker fashion, not to hear him, and casually fingered the bolts at the edge of the shop meant to lure you in for the more expensive stuff. i glanced inside, sure that i would be on my way quickly, and almost dropped dead on the spot. along the walls and down the middle of this tiny crowded shop were bolts and bolts of the Coolest. Fabrics. EVER. from behind me, that whisper again... only this time he added that most beautiful of words: Everything. my game face cracked. suddenly shady dude was positively russell crowe-ian. "a dollar a yard? i'd like... three... of this one..." i managed to stammer out. russell immediately offered me six yards for five dollars, and we were off to the races. i left the shop with a sack half my size for only 30 bucks of birthday money. i floated down the street, beaming at everyone like i was from kentucky and goin' to the fair. 

now, that might have been my downfall. i should have stopped there and grinned my way right back to tank, made some time to actually eat some food during my lunch break... but no, i pushed it. i walked into the biggest, prettiest corner store on the block, just to see, and was immediately accosted by a salesman. did i say my dollar-a-yard beau was shady? feh. THIS dude was shade-apalooza. he honed in on me & the mod silk print i was eyeing and pronounced it twelve dollars a yard. i politely declined. he brought the price down. i told him i had 23 bucks cash and two pennies. he badgered me to use a credit card. i said no. he badgered me to use the ATM. i said no. my elated mood wearing thin, i bade him farewell. he told me to give him the 23 bucks and he'd give me four yards. i twirled and handed him the cash. he told me to give him two more dollars. seriously? we ACTUALLY HAD A TUG OF WAR WITH MY MONEY. i'm not even lying. the new yorker in me finally came out and i left, with my money, amidst some shocked stares. it only took several seconds of walking with eight hundred glorious pounds of russell's fabric on my back to get me in a good mood again. 

i tore into it this weekend and made this!

and this!

and this!

and very soon i'll make lots more, what with my fancy new BWOF birthday subscription... THAT'S RIGHT! but more on that tomorrow. now it is wine-thirty, as sugar mama would say, and time to sign off. 'night!