Revisiting a Veteran's Story

Two years ago today, I wrote this post about my Granddad. I don't have new stories to share about him, because I didn't know him when he was here--but I thought this old story was worth revisiting. 

This is my granddad. I always believed that he did not love me.

One summer, long after he had passed away, long after both my Grandmothers had passed away, my parents put together a photo album for me as a birthday gift. The bulk of the shots were true and believable memories. But I stared in surprise at my Granddad, me cradled in his arms. The love on his face was undeniable. And unbelievable.

But our beliefs are not always truth. 

Granddad was a quiet man. I shared maybe a hundred words with him over the years, most of those in the form of hellos and goodbyes. He was a Veteran. He served for four years in the Navy during World War II. I know next to nothing about him. This is what I learned today:

In 1941, my Nana had moved from Virginia to New Jersey, where she met my Granddad. Her brother, Eddie, was a Marine, and when my Granddad first met him, Eddie was in uniform. Granddad thought this man was an unbelievable sight, and he enlisted in the Navy in '42 -- mainly because he didn't want to give up the curl in his 'do with the mandatory buzz cut of the Army and Marines.

Granddad served in the South Pacific, but whenever they were docked stateside, Nana would go to visit him on his ship. His crewmates were incensed that a Black man was involved with a woman who, by all appearances, seemed White. They had to assure them that she was not.

When he returned from the war in January of '46, they were married by the end of the month. Twin girls arrived in November of that year. 

His first job after the war was short lived. When he asked for a raise, his boss said, no problem, you'll have your raise starting tomorrow. He arrived at work the next day to find that his boss had placed several pallets by his workspace to stand on. He quit on the spot.

He was incredibly hard working. He had multiple side jobs on top of his full-time job at Western Electric, which he got because he was a veteran, in spite of the color of his skin.

One hot summer day, the young family of four all got on the bus to Olympic Park in Irvington, NJ. They were excited to ride the roller coaster and cool off in the pool. But when they arrived at the gate, they were denied entry, because of the color of their skin.

During the Newark riots of '67, now a family of five, their car was stopped by the police, who then searched the vehicle. The police found a hammer in the trunk, there because Granddad did all of the repair work on the two homes they owned. The police considered the hammer to be a weapon and said something to my Granddad, something my Mom did not hear. But she felt it when he suddenly hit the gas and sped off and she heard it when the police shot at their car. 

Or was it the National Guard? My shock at these stories, at once completely believable and absolutely unbelievable, makes it hard to remember the facts.

Granddad once caught an electric eel when fishing in the Raritan River. What did he do?! I asked. He threw it back! my Dad replied. The thought of my stoic Granddad reacting to an electric fish is unimaginable and yes, unbelievable. 

Everything I've just told you comes from a conversation I had with my parents this morning. I didn't hear any of these stories from my Granddad, who I rarely saw anywhere but in his domain: the basement TV room and bar. There, he would sit in his recliner (though never in a reclined position), watching TV. We would kiss him on the cheek. He would grunt a hello. We would leave him be, and go outside to play with our cousins. The only thing that changed as we grew up was that I would go upstairs to debate with our cousins, while my brother would stay downstairs and sit with him. I know no other small tidbits about him. 

I do have one memory of my brother and me, sitting on bar stools, while Dad and Granddad made a couple of rum and cokes for the ladies upstairs. (Nana said no one made a rum and coke better than my Dad. EASILY BELIEVABLE.)

This might seem like a story about race. It's not-- but it is. I said at the beginning of this lengthy post that I believed my Granddad didn't love me. I suppose I should tell you why. My extended family looked like a Colors of Benetton ad, but it sure didn't act United. We were opinionated, and funny, and loud, and passionate, and ever-slightly-feuding--and though every single person in that house was born of an interracial marriage, a lot of those holiday feuds were centered on race. What race you were, what race you claimed, what race was better than the other. Neither of my grandparents ever joined in these conversations, especially my Granddad, who sat downstairs as the hollering went on. His silence made it easy for me to believe he didn't care enough to talk. I believed my particular racial blend held both of my maternal grandparent's love for me at a quiet arm's length. 

But maybe my Granddad simply wanted quiet after the weight of so many struggles. The worst of which had to be losing his 33 year-old daughter. Maybe my Nana was just shocked to see a teenager with natural hair the size of New Jersey greeting her at the door, when she had to wrangle her hair into a small, straightened shape every day of her life in an effort to appear a little bit more "acceptable." Maybe I was just an unbelievable sight to her. 

Race plays an enormous part in the story. You could easily say it is the cause of it, but it is not the sum of it. It is a story about strangers, brought on by a day which honors a man I didn't know. 

I've been reading this over and over, wondering what the hell I'm trying to say. Just now, I heard some yells, some drums, coming from up the street, and my mind immediately went to thoughts of protestors and trouble. I believed this imagined scenario instantly and completely. Looking out the window, I saw a troop of 30 young Black kids dressed in some sort of school military uniform, carrying marching band instruments and carefully rolled flags. They walked happily down the street, obviously heading somewhere in honor of Veteran's Day. I wrote a story in my head that I instantly believed, and which turned out to be the complete opposite.

Would I have gotten these stories directly from my grandparents if my own beliefs hadn't clouded up every encounter I had with them? My beliefs became truths that made no room. They colored every hello and goodbye. And they made my grandparents strangers to me.

We all have strangers in our lives: neighbors who vote the other way, family members we just don't get, countless people we only know through half-thought-out opinions on social media. In honor of this man I didn't know--this man, who by sheer virtue of the magnificent daughter he raised, was obviously a man who had great love inside him--in honor of this man, I'm going to do my best to question my beliefs. To hear a siren and consider that it might mean help is on the way for someone. To consider that a stranger's sideways glance might not be condemnation--maybe it's a commendation on my latest creation. To let my beliefs be pliable enough that I can give small and large kindnesses to those that I see every day, and those that I'll never see again.  

To consider that my belief isn't always truth.

Declaration of Intent: Commenting on Your Comments.

This skirt, made over the course of one day in early June, became an instant favorite of mine. I reached for it every chance I got. Sadly, it fell into abandonment just as quickly as it took to stitch it, because the last time I wore it, I was in an unfortunate situation with a difficult, offensive personality. And it takes a lot to offend me. I wore it as armor, but it suffered battle scars. In the space of one day, this once adored garment became a tinged reminder of that event.


I gave it a cooling-off period, and the memories of that obnoxious personality have now faded, just in time for the crisper weather which this heavy metallic yardage is actually best suited for (I mean, should Mother Nature decide that we get to keep seasons).

Beautiful People, I'd like to keep this space as a favorite spot. I don't want to have to give this small corner of the web a cooling-off period. But lately, I've been giving it the side-eye, wondering what offense I might unintentionally provoke.

I've recently had a nice little run of offending folks, unawares. From the description of my closet, to the use of the term spirit animal. The latest in a string of self-set booby-traps happened last week, in the form of a typo.

This gorgeous, clear blue-skied week, we woke up daily to the next atrocity that somehow impossibly overshadowed the previous impossibly terrible thing, which overshadowed the last thing, and the countless things before it, and it feels insurmountable. There are too many things in this world that we cannot fix, so we focus on the things we can fix. I GET IT. But we lose sight of the people behind the things we're fixing.

I'm not easily offended. I'm confident. I'm vocal. I'm strong. Which is not to say that others are or are not any of those things. But those qualities in me, coupled with the fact that I'm (racially speaking) a little bit of everything and not enough of anything, make up a person who wears what she wants, says what she wants, and doesn't get too concerned about what others think of her.

The latter part of that sentence hasn't been the case lately, mainly because the last thing I want to be perceived as, in this quivering world, is an agent of more sadness--even unintentionally. So I spend hours worrying and responding (hopefully, thoughtfully) to over a hundred comments on months worth of posts where landmines loomed unseen.

YEAH, SO WHAT. Blog comments. What a silly, inconsequential worry in the face of the world we live in.

But it is a worry, small as it is. A worry that I do not have the energy to carry, especially when the conversation ends out in the ether of the internet, and I’m left wondering if my thoughtful responses have even been read by those that started the ball rolling. I've considered turning off the comments altogether, but in this age of mindless, unconnected interacting through screens, the sewing world is an anomaly--we want to have a discussion. And blog discussion, despite being down elsewhere, is still very much happening here.

So, I'm not going to turn the comments off. I’m not going to delete comments. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have your response and share it (although in this age of public "calling out", the occasional private "calling in" might be a more productive choice). Speak your mind! This is, contrary to unpopular belief, a free country. But, if your very first comment here is about the ways in which I have hurt or offended you, or if your comment's sole purpose is to tell me how I am wrong with no explanation, or even if I just don't have the energy: I am going to give myself the option to pass on putting myself into a tailspin. I will instead direct you to this post, specifically, this last bit:

It is impossible to live a life where you offend no one. Although it is my wish that you have a Great Good Time while you're here, I also understand that my sense of humor, sense of style, and sense of English may not be everyone's cup of tea. (Or coffee. Or gin. Or room temp water.) But if my off-color humor doesn't suit you, if I misstep, if I use a word that is a trigger for you, if there is a new word in our ever-changing lexicon that I misuse, it is most certainly NOT my intention to hurt or offend you. I intend to make you laugh. I intend to inspire you to live colorfully. I intend to provide you a breather in the middle of the madness.

And once in a while, I'll even talk about sewing.

eta: Thank you all so very much for your thoughtful words! I'm at a loss at how to respond to everyone, but if we run into each other in a bar, drinks are on me. (And apparently, we'll need them, as we'll be preparing for possible fisticuffs. It'll be the best dressed bar fight ever.)

Simplicity 1687 & Complicated Thoughts

WELL NOW. Unfortunately, it seems I must say some things about my the use of the English language, in order to continue to say anything at all in these parts.  It is unfortunate mainly for me, because to be quite honest, I DON'T FEEL LIKE IT. I'd like to just talk about the six yards of insanity I've got on, but, there's the rub, I shouldn't be describing a dress as insane... and so, the post goes back into the Realm Of Draft... again. Not because I can't think of another opening sentence, but because I DON'T WANT TO.

Let me explain. Following my last post, a reader (quite politely, actually!) suggested to me via Twitter that I rethink the usage of certain words, which is fair enough. It's not the first time my off-color sense of humor has chafed, and it probably won't be the last. If you're looking for a calm, sterile, and properly punctuated use of the English Language, I am not your huckleberry. 

But, I also don't intend any harm, with my random capitalization and colorful talk. So let me clarify, when I call my closet "schizophrenic and delusional," I am referring to the general, and not medical, definitions of the words, which are; schizophrenic: a mentality or approach characterized by inconsistent or contradictory elements, and, delusional: based on or having faulty judgment, mistaken. 

To wit: in the past, my closet held many inconsistent, contradictory elements of style, having everything to do with the fact that I had to be able to pull different looks for whatever role I was auditioning for. And in the present, where I am still a working actress in need of many looks, I THINK my closet still has those inconsistent or contradictory elements, but my judgement is faulty and mistaken: IT DOES NOT, because now that I sew pretty much all of my own clothing, there is no longer any room for RTW lawyer/nurse/cop wear. Yet I delude myself into thinking I can don something like this African wax print maxi dress to audition as a Suburban Mother with an Edgy Vibe. (The hair gets me to edgy all on its own, folks.)

Hrm. Four paragraphs later, I guess I do feel like saying some things about this subject. But I don't. LET ME CAPITALIZE: I REALLY, REALLY DON'T. And contrary to what four paragraphs of rambling would suggest, I truly don't want to make a big thing out of it! Raising my pitchfork because someone doesn't agree with my yammerings about the idiosyncrasies of my closet would be, how do you say, blowing things out of proportion.

But are we, as a whole, maybe blowing things out of proportion in general? The (again, gentle and friendly) tweet came complete with a link to an article warning the reader against using words like Grief, Depression, and Insomnia as descriptors, unless you have truly personally experienced those afflictions. (That was about halfway through the article, and also where I tapped out).  

Again, not meaning to start a Riot, party of one, over a tweet. It was simply a small reminder of the much larger liberal minefield that we've become, in the face of the impossibility of what we are. Our opinions and ideals have become our most precious possessions. Words are what the bulk of us have right now to protect those possessions. Words have become both weapons and prisoners. And on the liberal side, specifically, we're imprisoning words to protect our possessions from those who probably aren't out to damage an already beaten and bloodied society with an innocent turn of phrase.

But, words are loaded things with meanings that can shift entirely based on personal experience. There are plenty of nasty words out there that should be obliterated, and plenty of words that have taken on new weight when we weren't looking. That's just it, isn't it? Even if you think you're clear on the meaning, you have no idea how your words will affect someone else, because you are not living their life and their experiences.

As for myself, there are plenty of words that conjure up real life experiences for me, that rub me the wrong way. Words that are mine in a way that they are not yours, because I have experienced them. They're innocent enough to others, and they're not going anywhere, and that's just fine. When humor is your weapon of choice (whether you're skilled at wielding that weapon or not), I think you have a wider...allowance. 

I know that in our current climate, the great good bulk of us are trying to be more careful with each other, and I applaud us for it. But can we try to assume that the person to our left, and I do mean left, most likely has our back? Because it's getting censored around here. And by here, I don't mean my small nonsensical corner of the web, I mean out there. There's no room for humor, no room for questions, no room for language, there's no room to talk about anything. When everything is sacred, nothing is safe.

WELL. That's just about enough of that, although I do 100% invite you to share your thoughtful comments. Let's talk for a minute about the pattern, Simplicity 1687 (who, by the way, after a deserved backlash over their lack of ethnicity in vintage patterns have since made strides to correct that, and from what I can see have received no kudos for it--so kudos, Simplicity. And yes, I can already hear my fellow liberals fire back that a couple of pattern envelopes and reposts are not enough, but to this liberal, steps forward are steps forward.)

TOUGH TO GET OFF THAT SOAPBOX, EH, MIZZ BALLOONA? The pattern. I maxi-fied this midi dress, and shortened the waist by about an inch--and in doing so, made the pockets useless for actual hands. They will hold a phone, keys, and dinero, tho. The yoke was abandoned in favor of adjustable straps. I flat piped some of the shorter seams with remnants from this Vogue wrap dress, and both prints hail from AKN Fabrics. I feel like Holly Hobby in some alternate universe, which is just how I want to feel some days.




And with that, I believe I'm out of words.

To the Veteran I Never Knew.

This is my granddad. I always believed that he did not love me.

One summer, long after he had passed away, long after both my Grandmothers had passed away, my parents put together a photo album for me as a birthday gift. The bulk of the shots were true and believable memories. But I stared in surprise at my Granddad, me cradled in his arms. The love on his face was undeniable. And unbelievable.

But our beliefs are not always truth. 

Granddad was a quiet man. I shared maybe a hundred words with him over the years, most of those in the form of hellos and goodbyes. He was a Veteran. He served for four years in the Navy during World War II. I know next to nothing about him. This is what I learned today:

In 1941, my Nana had moved from Virginia to New Jersey, where she met my Granddad. Her brother, Eddie, was a Marine, and when my Granddad first met him, Eddie was in uniform. Granddad thought this man was an unbelievable sight, and he enlisted in the Navy in '42 -- mainly because he didn't want to give up the curl in his 'do with the mandatory buzz cut of the Army and Marines.

Granddad served in the South Pacific, but whenever they were docked stateside, Nana would go to visit him on his ship. His crew mates were incensed that a Black man was involved with a woman who, by all appearances, seemed White. They had to assure them that she was not.

When he returned from the war in January of '46, they were married by the end of the month. Twin girls arrived in November of that year. 

His first job after the war was short lived. When he asked for a raise, his boss said, no problem, you'll have your raise starting tomorrow. He arrived at work the next day to find that his boss had placed several pallets by his workspace to stand on. He quit on the spot.

He was incredibly hard working. He had multiple side jobs on top of his full time job at Western Electric, which he got because he was a veteran, in spite of the color of his skin.

One hot summer day, the young family of four all got on the bus to Olympic Park in Irvington, NJ. They were excited to ride the roller coaster and cool off in the pool. But when they arrived at the gate, they were denied entry because of the color of their skin.

During the Newark riots of '67, now a family of five, their car was stopped by the police, who then searched the vehicle. The police found a hammer in the trunk, there because Granddad did all of the repair work on the two homes they owned. The police considered the hammer to be a weapon and said something to my Granddad, something my Mom did not hear. But she felt it when he suddenly hit the gas and sped off and she heard it when the police shot at their car. 

Or was it the National Guard? My shock at these stories, at once completely believable and absolutely unbelievable, makes it hard to remember the facts.

Granddad once caught an electric eel when fishing in the Raritan River. What did he do?! I asked. He threw it back! my Dad replied. The thought of my stoic Granddad reacting to an electric fish is unimaginable and yes, unbelievable. 

Everything I've just told you comes from a conversation I had with my parents this morning. I didn't hear any of these stories from my Granddad, who I rarely saw anywhere but in his domain: the basement TV room and bar. There, he would sit in his recliner (though never in a reclined position), watching TV. We would kiss him on the cheek. He would grunt a hello. We would leave him be, and go outside to play with our cousins. The only thing that changed as we grew up was that I would go upstairs to debate with our cousins, while my brother would stay downstairs and sit with him. I know no other small tidbits about him. 

I do have one memory of my brother and me, sitting on bar stools, while Dad and Granddad made a couple of rum and cokes for the ladies upstairs. (Nana said no one made a rum and coke better than my Dad. EASILY BELIEVABLE.)

This might seem like a story about race. It's not-- but it is. I said at the beginning of this lengthy post that I believed my Granddad didn't love me. I suppose I should tell you why. My extended family looked like a Colors of Benetton ad, but it sure didn't act United. We were opinionated, and funny, and loud, and passionate, and ever-slightly-feuding--and though every single person in that house was born of a mixed race marriage, a lot of those holiday feuds were centered on race. What race you were, what race you claimed, what race was better than the other. Neither of my grandparents ever joined in these conversations, especially my Granddad, who sat downstairs as the hollering went on. His silence made it easy for me to believe he didn't care enough to talk. I believed my particular racial blend held both of my maternal grandparent's love for me at a quiet arm's length. 

But maybe my Granddad simply wanted quiet after the weight of so many struggles. The worst of which had to be losing his 33 year-old daughter. Maybe my Nana was just shocked to see a teenager with natural hair the size of New Jersey greeting her at the door, when she had to wrangle her hair into a small, straightened shape every day of her life in an effort to appear a little bit more "acceptable." Maybe I was just an unbelievable sight to her. 

Race plays an enormous part in the story. You could easily say it is the cause of it, but it is not the sum of it. It is a story about strangers, brought on by a day which honors a man I didn't know. 

I've been reading this over and over, wondering what the hell I'm trying to say. Just now, I heard some yells, some drums, coming from up the street, and my mind immediately went to thoughts of protestors and trouble. I believed this imagined scenario instantly and completely. Looking out the window, I saw a troop of 30 young Black kids dressed in some sort of school military uniform, carrying marching band instruments and carefully rolled flags. They walked happily down the street, obviously heading somewhere in honor of Veteran's Day. I wrote a story in my head that I instantly believed, and which turned out to be the complete opposite.

Would I have gotten these stories directly from my grandparents if my own beliefs hadn't clouded up every encounter I had with them? My beliefs became truths that made no room. They colored every hello and goodbye. And they made my grandparents strangers to me.

We all have strangers in our lives: neighbors who vote the other way, family members we just don't get, countless people we only know through half-thought-out opinions on social media. In honor of this man I didn't know--this man, who by sheer virtue of the magnificent daughter he raised, was obviously a man who had great love inside him--in honor of this man, I'm going to do my best to question my beliefs. To hear a siren and consider that it might mean help is on the way for someone. To consider that a stranger's sideways glance might not be condemnation--maybe it's a commendation on my latest oona creation. To let my beliefs be pliable enough that I can give small and large kindnesses to those that I see every day, and those that I'll never see again.  

To consider that my belief isn't always truth.

it begins

Voting, and coverage of it, has begun. Although I don't talk politics here, I've been completely unable to keep my mouth shut in public--lobbing out a soft ball to test the waters, and then jumping in with both feet regardless of temperature. In waiting rooms at auditions. In ballet class between exercises. In Mood at the cutting tables. In my neighborhood grocery store. I've run into more than a few peeps who have decided to sit this one out, but who at the same time have unbendable opinions about who should win.

This year saw two of the most watched Presidential debates in our history. It's easy to watch--well, let me rephrase, I watched all three from tip to tail, and it was not easy to watch whatever that was at all. What I mean is, watching is passive. Typing out 140 character rants on social media is worthless if you don't back it up and vote. I'm not here today to take sides, I don't think you're going to have to stretch your brains very far to guess what side I'm on. I'm here to implore you to take your side and make it official. Of course I wish you'd vote for the one that I want (doowop-shoowadawada, oo, oo, oooo). But more than that, I want you to physically make a choice. Even if our voting system is a mess--make this the biggest voter turnout in our history. 

And we'll see what history has in store for us in the morning. 

(Tonight, I'm going to leave a pretty piece of fabric folded up on my desk to greet me alongside the AM results. I highly recommend it. And right now, I'm going to turn the comments off because it's the day of the show, y'all. Stop typing. Go vote.)

Ovulation Motivation

Can I just say, once again, baby makin time is EXCELLENT clothes makin time? You might remember my "flow chart" from a few years back, in which I quite scientifically explain the link between ovulation and uber sewjo levels of creation. No? It's over here. SO FACT-Y. (I'd put the graphic up again, but there's a misplaced apostrophe that bugs the shizz outta me.)

Appropriately, this month, I used that glorious fertile window for makin unmentionables. I was like an idiot savant, churning out free cut tanklets and bralets. When I danced around the living room after realizing my ample bosom didn't require darts, Ruggy gave his resounding approval: F#@! A DART. This quickly became the mantra for the weekend. And god help me...I went so far as to put together a bag of supplies for the making of THONGS. In my opinion, you've really hit ninja levels of sewing addiction when you're making thongs. (Especially when you swore up and down you'd never make underwear. Or jeans.)

I used the rest of my creation juice to make a free cut maxi dress, "spring" clean the storage area, and organize my very generous half of the closet. After all, I can't put my new pretties in the undies drawer alongside unused, underwired torture chambers. (Y'all, I hate underwires. And no, you can't make me wear them.)

(Apparently every paragraph of this post ends in a parenthetical.)

What's the thing (or thong) you thought you'd never sew?

New York, Go Sit In The Corner.

Although Mother Nature is doing her best to give us a cookie after the time-out we've been in, New Yorkers ARE NOT HAVING IT. We punished children, we who have done time for our transgressions, we are side-eyeing this sunny olive branch and blowing a raspberry at the general vicinity, taking it out on the parent who rightfully made our disrespectful planet-torturing-asses sit in a corner for the first few weeks of Spring.

Nothing will make us spurned brats happy! Case in point: a trip to buy flowers is always a reason to smile, no? And when it's 72 degrees and blue skied as you please, and the local farmer's market transforms a block of Broadway into a patch of technicolor blooms, pleasant folks should be a given!

Sorry, my boss says anyone with poofy hair is banned from the market, sorry the sales gardener lamely jested. Ah! I thought. A jokester! A slightly tired jokester, but nonetheless! I LOVE JOKESTERS!

I grinned, ready for repartee with my new friend. Well then I'm about to implode, because my hair is reaching Marie Antoinette heights of poofdom today. I was rewarded with a pained half smile, and an allowance of two brief grunts on pricing before he poof! disappeared.

Boss man was in the truck, chilling in the shade. Lounging, even. Maybe that was the reason for the less-than-stellar atmosphere. Employee number two appeared, a fellow curly haired girl. AHA! We kinky chicks have an Instant Secret Club connection, borne out of years of learning how to deal with the mass of unmanageable coils springing from our noggins! Surely we will share a smile and the usual exchange! But the I love your hair which, by rule, leads to yours too what do you use instead produced a blank, cold stare. The natural progression of Hair Product Suggestions left unfulfilled, I asked instead for a spot to place the large amount of plants I was about to purchased. She waved at an area and walked away.

I spent a good hour navigating their small patch of market, alternating between wrangling flats, cajoling stunted answers out of Employees One and Two, and politely persuading shoppers to please leave the flats that I'd already selected alone. Because that was my job, you see, to be the employee to my customer.

People were actually angry with me when they couldn't have my plants. Multiple people. PEOPLE WHO WERE THERE WITH ME THE WHOLE TIME AND KNEW I WAS SETTING THINGS ASIDE. When one co-shopper, who'd already tried to pick from my flats, reached once again for a loner in my bunch, I said, you know what, actually that's okay--you can have that one, I'm planting several boxes and that little guy has no mate. She blinked at me as if I'd cursed her out. No, really, I smiled reassuringly, you've made my decision for me, he should go with you. I'm not even sure she said thank you. She sort of just crept away with her prize.

Maybe my hair really was alarmingly poofy.

The final straw was slapping down 200 bucks for five flats of happiness, only to have 4 customers steal from my flats as I tried to find one of the suddenly MIA employees to bag up the order.

I lie, the final straw was a little ole lady, a sweet little ole lady, who grabbed one of my already paid for plants, and took it to one of the suddenly very available employees. I went off to find a replacement, and realized that was the last one. Hilarity ensued, as Sweet Little Ole tried to charm me into giving her the plant. But, you see I've already paid for this--I'm sorry, this is for my building, so I really do need a lot of plants, I explained.

She squeezed her soft eyes into a endearing grin. Well, a building? I'm just one little person, so I'm more important, she sang. As I sighed and prepared to repeat myself, I was reminded of my grandmother, and how much she loved flowers. My eyes searched the market for a solution, as Sweet suggested we shoot for it. Rock papers scissors at the ready, Employee Number Two finally found her voice and ended the debate, and suddenly Little Ole dropped the act and yelled WELL I'M NOT GOING TO ARGUE WITH YOU I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS I'LL JUST COME BACK TOMORROW THANKS A BUNCH HONEY.

Suddenly she didn't remind me of Nan anymore.

I then positively careened through the market, Marie Antoinette on a bad day, losing all cheer and turning full New Yorker, slamming my paid-for flats out of reach of e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e. I AM DONE, I glared at the employees, ordering them to get me bagged up.

Suddenly both employees were at my side, protecting the flats, hailing cabs, saying things like you've been so nice this whole time, we're so sorry, mean customers suck, blahblahblah, but I couldn't find a smile for them. I had been there a long time, and I had been nice the entire time. But nice did nothing for me.

It was a silly little annoying hour, nothing earth shattering, but I find that the small things are indicative of the bigger state of things. At the end of the day, the boxes planted, I thought I'll be surprised if these plants don't collapse under the weight of all that irritation. I was fed up with nice. Now, no, I don't abhor the word "nice" in the way that some people do, the word has not fallen out of vogue for me, I'm just getting tired of that misunderstood, pleasant little word not being returned.

Especially when I got home and realized Little Ole made off with the plant anyway.

I told Ruggy, in all caps, HUMANITY IS GOING TO DIE OF BEING INHUMAN. People die of that all the time, he said. But we're going to be the few. The proud. The humane.

...OKAY FINE IF WE HAVE TO.

Oh hey, I made a dress! This is True Bias' Colfax dress, and the creator, Kelli, a truly nice (and super chic) lady, just happens to be a friend--a friend who passed her new pattern on to me in case I wanted to try it. Well I do and I did! AND IT IS NICE!!! And I should have worn it to the flower market as I intended, but I just didn't trust Mother Nature enough to go for it! SURELY THIS GODDESS DRESS WOULD HAVE CHANGED THE ENTIRE EXPERIENCE. I lengthened mine to maxi proportions, and reversed the placket. I plan to wear it a ton this summer, on the days that Mother Nature feels like rewarding us. I'd like to say I'll wear it to that same flower market, but methinks I'll find a new spot for my slightly abused green thumb...

party crasher

I dreamt last night that Karen of Did You Make That had to drop out of Me Made May, and challenged me via Instagram to take her place. It was a hashtagged dare, something like #oonaisapussy. (Sorry, that's what she said. Guttermouth.) Fiona of Diary Of A Chainstitcher then immediately messaged me, begging me not to take the bait, as my participation would mean she'd have to join in the fray, and she just didn't have the time.

Either I have a bit of (obviously silly) residual stress over not participating in #memademay for the first time in years, or I have an obsession with London bloggers. One could also say that I think the world, or at least the sewist world, revolves around my choices.

WELL OBVIOUSLY.

Big head and big need to wear and holler about my own makes notwithstanding, so far, in this dreary gray rainy May, I have worn ONE handmade item out into the actual world. ONE. You see it above, devoid of color, and indeed, it is black in real life. It was angrily stitched over a year ago, during an equally dreary February, when I was  d o n e  with winter. And today was its virgin outing. Could have something to do with the lack of color...but come on! OVER A YEAR IN MY CLOSET?!!!

The dream popped up into my consciousness when I looked for something appropriate for today's drizzly errands, and on it went, in an attempt to appease the part of my brain that apparently feels like a draft dodger. I've loved participating in this May Parade for that very reason-- it's always forced me to wear something that I might be on the fence about. Some of my favorite outfits have come from trying to think up pairings!

Although I'm late to the party, I think I will do a little challenge of my own (after all, I'm a Leo, but I'm no pussy). I'll be donning an item that has yet to see the light of (public) day, once a week for the duration of May, and I mean for actual activity, not just for blog photos. BOOM! TAKE THAT BRAIN!

Care to be late to the party with me? I could use some more crashers! And those of you with lampshades on your head already--how's the shindig going? Are we good on booze?

More. Casual. Wear.

Still with the separates! STILL! And not just separates. I'm venturing into the realm of CASUAL. Ugh, casual. HOW I LOATHE THE WORD. Here's how Webster's defines those six little letters:

ca su al

happening by chance : not planned or expected
designed for permitting ordinary dress, behavior, etc : not formal
not regular or permanent, in particular
made or done without much thought or premeditation

EGADS WHAT A DIRTY LITTLE WORD. But it's a necessary evil in my audition closet, and since hand made jeans came into my life, I'm no longer satisfied with wearing RTW everyday wear. I get ready for "work" and eye my hand made separates with a sigh, the print/color/shiny-ness nowhere near casual enough to work on camera. (Not that this eye searing neon and floral explosion will work on camera either, but I'm getting closer.)

You can see the full outfit & details at The Mood Sewing Network...

It also occurs to me that this deviation into sewing bread might be a little strange for longtime visitors of Kalkatroona. Maybe you come here for party dresses and brocade dusters and you're all WHERE'S THE SHINY. Or MAYBE you're all DO YOU EVER WEAR NORMAL CLOTHING. That said, thank you for your comments on my last separates post! I haven't had time to respond to everyone, but I'm going to try the vinegar wash suggestions on those jeans. I will be pinching my nose shut with the grip of Hercules the entire time. Good god, I hate the smell of vinegar. I hate it about as much as the word Casual! Probably because it reminds me of spoiled wine, which is a crime against humanity. Vinegar, that is. Well, Casual might be a felony too. I THINK CASUAL WEAR AND SMARTPHONES MIGHT BE THE DEMISE OF OUR SOCIETY.

*obviously incoherent, oona walks away from the computer in search of coffee.*

Happy Sunday, y'all! Hope you're sewing!

This might be why it's called a Manhattan.

DUDE, I said to the smoker, repeat offending on our front stoop for the fourth day in a row (his short term memory is, apparently, 50 First Dates short), you have GOT to be kidding me. Aren't you tired of me nagging you? Aren't you tired of SEEING me? Just go somewhere else. JUST. GO. ANYWHERE. ELSE.

Mumble mumble, he said, crushing his half-finished smoke on the step, sauntering off with his pizza box.

At least this time he didn't bark at me to CLOSE YOUR WINDOW. That was the gem he offered up on day three. Strangers telling me what to do in my own home are awesome! If you'd like to buy me an apartment in a high rise, that'd be just fine, I retorted sweetly. He rolled his eyes and walked away.

I have decided on several options for further courses of action, should he grant me the pleasure of his company for a fifth day. One involves me going full-volume-nuclear on him, and yes, I know I know, that is not the course of action I'll take. While I sincerely believe that I am 6 foot 3, and able to physically annihilate just about anything, I am also aware that this belief is helpful only in terms of boosting my self confidence.

Helpful is a rare breed nowadays in the city. I'm starting to wonder if it's specific to New York, though. I was away in Seattle/Portland last week, doing an absolutely gorgeous workshop of a new musical (apologies to every sewist I was in spitting distance of...so busy!!). And the people. The people! Were SO! FRIENDLY! I had a conversation with just about every stranger that crossed my path! Back at home, I swear, people are crossing my path... BUT IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE AIMING FOR ME.

And how is it possible that I'm home at the exact time of Short Memoried Smoker's random daily visits? Maybe the universe is putting me in his path. Maybe the universe is trying to get New York to behave itself! MAYBE IT WANTS TO SEE WHAT WE'LL DO! ALRIGHT THEN, UNIVERSE! I'LL TAKE THE BAIT! HEY MANHATTAN! Baby, whassamatter? What the problem is? Why you goin' around smokin' in people's faces and growlin' and shizz? You need a cocktail? Come on over. Chill. I'll mix you up something good. Ruggy even brandies his own cherries. They're delicious.

(Don't let my sardonic tone confuse you, I really am in a lovely mood after that trip. A mood made all the more lovely by being back with my man, who is imitating Michael McDonald as I type. We had a very enjoyable city excursion this morning, to snap some shots of my latest MSN project. It's live at the Mood Sewing Network now, and I'll have some more pics up here in the next few days. Cuz it's my house, yo!!!!!!!  Now, just let me get on humanizing Manhattan. I've got a lot of drinks to mix.)

IRL

I had a brilliant idea during #sewphotohop, inspired by the cacaphony on Instagram, and the crickets on blogs. It was "The UNstagram Challenge." The goal was to write, instead of squeezing life into a snap, a blurb, and 800 hashtags.

And then my cat died.

That challenge never happened, partly because I felt that I was being mean to Instagram (see above for the rest of the reason). I pictured an UNstagram button on the sidebar, pointing its accusatory finger at the happy little social media platform, and it made me feel bad for the app. (Because obviously, inanimate objects and pieces of code have feelings. See; Kenny, Ellie, Ricky, Lucille, George.) And besides which, I love Instagram! Hell, I've been looking forward to #sewvember since last November! So, I abandoned the idea.

And counteracted the stress of obsessing over the sick critter on the couch by posting fabric filled shots. 

Yesterday, I went to get my quick fix of inspiration and pleasing life moments, and the first six shots were advertisements. Not IG sponsored stuff--I mean shots that were swiped from the web and reposted, or carefully composed colorful text, or GIFs shimmying and shaking in a little square box. Announcements, links, reposts. I think of them as Fakegrams. This is all fine, of course, as Digital Underground so rightly crooned, dowhatchaLIIIIIIIIIKE, but I think this shift might be what knocks IG out of its current first place standing in social media. There are fewer and fewer Actual Life Moments, snapped and posted within minutes. Now, even when one does go old school, that Moment needs to be masterfully edited, if the preponderance of tutorials meant to help you beautify your pics have anything to say about it.

(Don't get me wrong, I'm totally guilty of throwing a fakegram up on IG when I post here. I'm fakegramming at a level, oh, I'd say, three? Haven't been able to bring myself to use text yet. That gets you to like, an eight. No shame if you're a ten. And I love photo editing!!! In fact, I'm seriously considering throwing down a whole two dollars for SKCRWT, an app designed to correct lens distortion on your phone. What?! I would go on to say, WHO AM I, but let's face it, I have nine photo editing apps already, and it makes total sense.)

When we lost our big guy this past Labor Day, I posted a shot of an organized thread drawer. It was how I spent Labor Day, but it was how I spent Labor Day because despite our best efforts to keep him from any suffering, our cat of 16 years took a major turn for the worse over a holiday weekend, when there was nothing to do but wait to give him a way out.

Oddly enough, for all my talk about wanting to get back to blogging and sharing Actual Moments with each other, many of you probably don't even know we had a cat. We've had five, actually. The most we've had at one time is three. Those three cats made cross country road trips, forced us to keep feline hours in doorless apartments, and gave us incredible amounts of happiness. Cody was our last musketeer. I stopped posting about them long ago, because it was too hard to post about them when they were gone. It sucks, and pet people get it, and non-pet people (sometimes) don't. It's super fun when the response to No, he's not here is When are you getting another. Easier to not bring the subject up, but I'm bringing it up anyways, because it was a quiet reminder of what deserves concern.

The rise of Instagram! The demise of blogging! Cars that drive themselves and Amazon Obelisks that will spit out everything you need to know! It's a little silly, isn't it? I don't think that any of it is cause for true concern (save for the fact that the machines will one day take over, and they'll be ruling a whole generation of people who will have completely lost the ability to hold an off-screen conversation, no biggie). Social media, in whatever form earns our passion, shouldn't gain our everyday thought. It can't replace real life. (But, it can be real cool. Example: the wonder of color in the second shot, that brightened some very sad days, was a gift from Lusty Wench, who I met on...you guessed it...Instagram.)

I don't have any specific snazzy questions to end this post, but I'd love to know what you think. About pretty much anything. You're more interesting than a blurb has room for.

been awhile

After a long and furiously lovely week of workshopping a musical that renewed my love for the word, I had a day off to relax, and try to fight my body's desire to break down completely in a mess of allergy-slash-cold. 

I won.

Netflix was partner in this battle. Although I hadn't stitched in well over ten days, Ruggy left the house on Sunday with the order that I would chill and take it easy. This was a struggle. My petite stash called to me with its siren song, Gorgeous George gleamed purple, reflecting the light of the soft fall day outside the window... 

I turned on the TV.

(I hate to turn on the TV.)

I scrolled through Netflix.

(I HATE to scroll through Netflix.)

And then...after endless categories created to lure you into mindless bouts of bingewatching, I landed on Iris, barked WELL YEAH to the empty apartment, and settled in. About three quarters of the way through, the parade of color and texture was undeniable. I got up to cut out a bodice or two. The film ended, and Netflix slyly suggested Advanced Style. I shrugged my shoulders and I left it on, thinking I'd keep stitching with background noise. Two minutes in, I realized this required my full attention, even more than the Liberty tana lawn on my table. (Yeah.) I ordered some fajitas and sat my ass in front of the boob tube.

If I ever see Ari Seth Cohen on the street, I'm going to hug him, and ask if I can walk with him for a few blocks. Well, no, first I'm going to tell him that we shared the same best friend growing up. Then I'll continue with the inappropriate physical contact. What a beautiful film! I felt like I spent the evening with my Nan, or with the fashionable gal my Nan was, but could not be. Don't get me wrong, she had style, but she had too much generosity of spirit to embrace that style fully for herself. And too many years of making ends meet to be comfortable with spending a dime on herself.

She was a huge enabler of style for me, though. Almost every weekend, my Mom would drop us off at the mall, or we'd take the bus sometimes, and arm in arm we'd hit the stores, her applauding my choices and using her Social Security check to fill up bags for me, accompanied by a slice of S'barro pizza midway through. And chocolate cake to finish, of course.

If you've read the yammering around here, you've heard this story before. But what struck me last night was a deep regret, that I didn't know how to sew when she was with us. I think she would have delighted in it, in a way that a best friend would have, in a way that someone whose every Saturday was spent, literally arm in arm, in a New Jersey Mall would have: You can make those things for yourself now? IN ANY COLOR YOU CAN DREAM OF?  

I would have made her such things. I would have had to assure her that the cost wasn't much, I would have had to assure her that the time was so well spent, as in hindsight all our time together was, I would have had to tempt her into taking those things, but I would have draped her in color. 

the met + meeting iris apfel: regrets

I will do my level best to never miss a Met Costume Institute Exhibit again. And if I happen to run into Iris Apfel (and I mean LITERALLY RUN INTO IRIS APFEL), I will simply tell her she's amazing and leave it at that.

I actually don't bother celebrities, much less ask for pictures. People are people, man. Some are famous, some are not. There are many Wondrous People worthy of a brief interlude, or a photo, in every walk of life. Several of y'all would get leveled by the sheer force of my hug were we to unexpectedly meet on the street. But still, in the Celestial Celebrity Realm, there have been a few I couldn't resist...

(lotsa museum shots in this one... click "read more" below to hear the rest of the story!)

what shaped your style?

I was weirdly drawn to these black and white prints on offer at Alice and Olivia, in a way that made a little voice inside me pipe up and scream: You like THAT? There isn't even any color in that! NooooOOOOOOoooo! Let's go find some crazy prints! CRA-ZEE PRINTS! CRA-ZEE PRINTS! CRA-ZEE PRINTS!

That voice belongs to a kid. When that kid sees black and white, that kid sees RED. That kid used to sit on a swingset on a cloudy day, decked out in a colorful print, and root with all her heart for the white clouds to win out over the black. Like any kid would. But she wasn't rooting against gray clouds, or the less common grey clouds, or rainy clouds, or dark, or swollen, or what have you. It was Black clouds. Battling White clouds.

That swingset was located in the backyard of my grandmother's house, the site of a handful of family gatherings, full of cousins, aunts and uncles of multiple and mixed races... none of which seemed to care for my nuclear family's special blend of color, all of which had no problem frankly expressing it. Now, there wasn't much White going on anywhere in that house, unless you counted Italian (us) and Irish (us and them, oddly enough), but it was the sort of setting where if you weren't Black enough, well, you weren't.

So after the obligatory greetings and salutations, I'd go out to the backyard and sit on the swingset, where there always seemed to be a mix of clouds fighting sunshine. And I would commence rooting. The kid wanted a sunny day, but any amateur shrink would agree: there was some symbolism going on there. Though it wasn't really about White versus Black--my parents (whom I am thankful to have been raised by every day) put a heavy dose of colorblindness into my edjumacation. The cloud fight wasn't about race, it was about "my family's label of me" versus "my family's label of themselves." A label of Black that did not include us, technically or no. I'm not ragging on my extended family, it was complicated...hell, my grandmother had to hide parts of her mix just to be legally married to my grandfather. Talk about real life struggle. She was lighter skinned than me, and up until my 20s we assumed she was Black, because that was the party line. With a history like that, I can't fault my extended family for their views. In fact I kind of thank them.

As kid morphed to teen, I'd still visit the swingset, because come on, IT'S A SWINGSET, but I also began to carefully choose my outfit for these family gatherings. It had to have a certain amount of shock value to make the grade. Vibrant clashing colors, lace, jewel toned paint on my cheek. I figured if they were going to judge my skin, I might as well adorn it appropriately. Give them some color atop my offending color.

I'd rock just about every color in the world to that house. But it hit me yesterday...damned if I still can't rock a little black dress! YES. THAT IS HOW I'M BRINGING THIS STORY BACK TO SEWING. For example: my BHL Georgia fringed jam, which I adore, has not been worn out (save for those very frigid, very wide, blog photos). Perhaps I should prescribe a little color therapy for myself and take it out for an Actual Life Event (and some better photographic evidence).

I realize that my disdain for somber hues on my own frame is not really about family racial relations. But I find it interesting to think about race as a factor in shaping my love for color.

What shaped your style? 

Kon-DON'T

As I was scrolling through the archives, looking for a possible throw-back post for this hashtagged day of the week, I came across a me-made-made trio of duds from 2012...

          

They've all gone the way of Goodwill, for various reasons which now seem overly harsh. I loved that drapey maxi dress! Yes, it was a bit clingy! But purple! With PRINT CONTRAST! What about that tribal romp of a dress? Who cares if my overzealous fittings birthed a waist two inches too short? And even when I go for refashioned RTW I do it in readily available yardage! I'VE SPIED THE PRINT OF THAT SILK TANK TOP IN NO LESS THAN THREE FABRIC STORES! WHY ARE THESE ITEMS NO LONGER IN MY CLOSET?!!!

I'm sure I agonized over the decision to give these up. Scratch that, I'm sure I didn't. We were in LA, we were moving up and down and around the country, and we were at the point when packing ONE MORE ITEM WOULD BREAK OUR SPIRIT. So yeah, we Kondo'd the shite out of everything, before we knew this ruthless practice existed. Oh, whatever! You can package it in pretty paper and speak in soft pleasing tones but IT'S RUTHLESS! So you looked at the item and thanked it for giving you joy?! HOW NICE OF YOU! I'M SURE YOUR OLD TEDDY BEAR DOESN'T FEEL LIKE AN ABANDONED TODDLER!  

I'm quite yell-y today. I have a prediction: this current craze is going to leave a lot of people with feelings of ragret. And one should never have ragrets. (That will never not be funny to me.)

There are pieces in my closet from my mom, my mom-in-law, my grandmothers, I've even got a supremely awesome Joe Namath print button-down shirt from my dad-in-law (which I am not allowed to hack). If they had Kondo'd their lives, these would probably not exist. Save for pictures, I wouldn't know of their existence. And though the three items pictured here are not heirloom quality, or of vintage worth, it fills me with regret that they now exist only in pictures. 

I mean, not life altering remorse, you know, just, sometimes I get a little harsh. Last night, in a bit of a rage getting dressed, I tried Kondo'ing my closet, asking myself what brought me joy and what didn't. Though my process was less "thoughtful questioning" and more "Sipowitz Interrogation." DO YOU LIKE THIS?! NO??? SHOVE IT IN THE BAG! This "bag" now resides in the back of my closet. That's right! QUAKE IN FEAR AT THE THOUGHT OF MY GIANT LAUNDRY BAG FULL OF MIRTHLESS ITEMS, KONDO! I'll be saving that bag, and going through it again at a later date with a fresh set of eyes! Maybe several times! It could take YEARS! KONDO! YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!  

behind the curtain

Yesterday, I had to be three kinds of human. Mysteriously Sad Human, Blossoming Activist Human, Slightly Broken Human. And I needed to be a particular race for each of these humans, requiring an entirely new hairdo for each role. (My hair is not happy with me today. SO MUCH STYLING.)

Having nothing and everything to do with my chameleon tricks and my pounding of the city pavement, I was struck once again by how rare it is to encounter a human OF ANY TYPE these days. It broke 80 in the city, which always brings out questionable behavior in force. As I strolled to my first subway ride of the day, determined to set a relaxed pace for the hours ahead, a biker casually coasted onto the sidewalk, bringing a wide eyed stare and his sweaty mug inches in front of my face. A baffled toe on his front tire, I glared: Really? Seriously? That's what you're going with? That's the choice you've made?

What he replied, emotionless and bored, as if speaking to me from another plane, one in which I did not exist further than my apparently captivating beauty. I rolled my eyes and shook my head and moved on.

Running the gauntlet of purse and perfume hawkers at 28th street, Mysteriously Sad Human headed into the first call, which involved multiple takes of crying on cue. My competition was more cutthroat than usual. It was a callback (the second and *usually* final round before getting a job, though god knows I've been to ninth and tenth callbacks), so the stakes were higher. This is when some actors will employ mind games to psyche out their competition. IT'S SUPER FUN! The waiting room was filled with mostly quiet ladies, respectful that any female in the room was readying herself to get all teary eyed. For my turn "on deck" (where you stand and wait before heading into the audition room), two actors parked themselves inches away from my face and embarked on a banal, loud conversation, shooting me odd pointed looks, emotionless and bored. Really? Seriously? That's what you're going with? That's the choice you've made?

(This time, I said the mantra of the day in my head, because I'm used to silly actors and their silly ways and I refuse to validate actor silliness. I rolled my eyes and shook my head and moved on.)

In the sunshine filled streets of the West Village, Mother With Baby and a stroller the size of the Grand Canyon set her sights on me, pushing her charge directly into my path, fixing me with what can only be called a murderous stare. Walk to the right, IT'S NOT HARD I intoned, emotionless and bored, as I planted my feet on the pavement and waited for her to move around me. At this point I was Blossoming Activist Human, so no-nonsense mode was in full swing. Dirty looks all around. I think even the baby was glaring at that point. 

A roll of the eyes, the day went on, the auditions went on, the hairstyles went on, until I landed in Midtown. My competition was invisible, I was the only human in the waiting room. Truly, it was the cherry on top: Slightly Broken Human on one side of the table, twenty five Humans With Power on the other side of the table, and as far as I could tell, the definition of emotionless and bored. A handful of words were spoken apart from the audition material, most of them mine. Turnabout is fair play: their "thank you" had a double meaning; translation: Really? Seriously? That's what you're going with? THAT'S THE CHOICE YOU'VE MADE?

As I left the building, I rolled my eyes and shook my head and broke the pencil in my hand in half .

Now don't go worrying, two out of three ain't bad; there are far worse things in the world to deal with than a bad day. And hey, I returned home to the best human that I know, who is currently making some of the tastiest meatballs in Manhattan. LUCKY DOESN'T COVER IT. But a day like that does beg the question (and I question myself, as well, I'm sure I was no ray of sunshine for about 8 of those 10 hours): whatever the day might be, what if we tried to be the best definition of Human that we can personally come up with?

The day might get better.