valley of the dolls

there is a seemingly tiny shop across the street from one of the many Whole Foods that litter dallas. its entrance boasts handpainted signs, garden ephemera, and small pieces of rustic wood furniture. 

the dolls made it look that way so that they can get you inside and kill you.  

the guts of curiousities is actually a cavernous carnival of nightmares.  upon entering, i was glad i still had still had a good thirty minutes left to my dinner break, as i was obviously going to need it to examine what would surely be truckloads of vintage treasures.  as my eyes adjusted, however, i realized i was being watched by said treasures....

....from every angle.

it brought back that universal childhood fear: your playthings are silently plotting against you while you sleep.  

but the santa VS jesus installation reminded me of a very strange and (i think) more singular underage fear: if i happened to be the last one up at night, and had to turn off all the lights before going upstairs, i was certain that as i reached the fourth step, jesus would turn the corner, eyes glowing, float-marching slowly and silently psychotically towards me.  i have no idea where killer jesus came from.  i was the town's first altar girl (because obviously, boys-only is not acceptable), and i was stupendously bad at my job, so maybe it was born out of guilt.

either way, you didn't want to meet that jesus in a dark alley.  he would whip santa's ass.

the only inanimate horrors missing were haunted porcelain masks.

yes, there were indeed some sewing treasures in there; a vintage featherweight at $175 and a box of jock straps from 1932 among them.  the proprietress breezed by in an absolutely gorgeous silky top of a thousand colors.  i thought she was there to chastise me about my large (read: tj maxx) sized bag, but we were destined to exchange clothing compliments.  i was sporting a new me-made.  oh!  you made that??  i really need to learn how to sew.  i need something to do when i get old and can't move anymore.  it's just around the corner. hahahahahahahahahHAHAHAHahhahahahahahhaaaaaaaa

i think the atmosphere of death might be getting to her.

i walked away with a great silk scarf, a luxuriously long strand of wooden beads, and my life.

MY PRECIOUS, PRECIOUS LIFE.

news flash

 
HEADLIGHTS!
 

if you're in need of an ooner nooner, i'm flashing my highbeams (which are actually of a fairly low wattage) over at christine's lovely blog, city stitching, and at MSN...and both posts are pretty much sponsored by the luscious lladybird. the vintage rayon you see above and the vintage zipper that compliments this month's mood fabrics pick are both gifted by her awesome hands!! tis the season for cross blog pollinating (which reminds me, thanks y'all for the tillytanitisis rasta love!).

 

 

head on over to christine's for some maxified derby dress love, and MSN for some quilted circle skirt action. i'll just be over here in texas acting like a deity. (no really, i get to be mother water. MOTHER WATER, YO.)

 

spy games: dallas edition

Howdy, hotel ironing board.  

(I'll be kickin' it Texas style through august. If everything truly is bigger in Texas, the next kalkatroonaan birthday celebration may actually end the world.)

Number one on the list of last minute mission supplies: an entire suitcase devoted to my truncated sewing studio. My Ricky Riccardo was shipped separately to me by Momma Ruggy, and I spent cocktail hour going Macgyver on its ass. Or, to be exact, its foot.  

Free for the night, I hit play on a most excellent episode of Thread Cult (#14), involving all manner of sewing machine knowledge from an obviously learn-ed man, Harvey Federman, the owner of Sew-Right in Queens. A delight to listen to. As I started my first seam of the evening, this statement came forth from my laptop speakers: vintage machines are only worth sewing on if they are metal, black, and pre WWII.

Hrm.

Cloth cut, makeshift table top set up, I plugged in my Ricky. Huzzah! The light blinked immediately on. Yet, another warning wafted through the air: many post WWII metal machines came from Japan, and were branded by department stores. They aren't worth the cost to fix them. I shuddered uneasily. You see, my Gimbels-branded, Japanese-made, beloved Kenny sits in NY, comatose; I can't bear to pull the plug.  Aright, I thought, I've got my Ricky, he works fine, maybe it's time to let Kenny go. I shook the image of Kenny's tiny, closeted sick space away, and gently pressed down on Ricky's engine.

Nothing.

As Harvey continued to wisely direct on all manner of new and vintage machine pros and cons, I fiddled desperately with switches and outlets and wheels. Occasionally I would sigh and drop my head: this poor white machine, with its made-in-japan stamp, it is not worth it. Thoughts of combing Dallas thrift shops or (shudder) getting a new plastic job (read: the cheap worthless kind) filled my weary traveling mind. I walked away to pour a glass of pinot to clear my brain. It didn't make sense! With his thirty pound metal housing of the wrong color, Ricky seemed impervious! Finally, a light shaking of the metal presser foot revealed a loose, rattling sound... 

Still enjoying the company of Christine & Co, I unearthed my handy machine screwdriver, which unfortunately was NOT a phillips head, and managed to pry the tiny screw off without stripping the damn thing. Harvey breathed: just because a machine is metal doesn't mean it's worth it. There are plenty of machines out there with plastic parts that are worth the money, and plenty that aren't. Holding my all metal foot, I scoffed, wrenched the plate off... and a plastic thingamajig promptly fell out.  

HARVEY FEDERMAN YOU GET OUT OF MY HOTEL ROOM.

Shoving fingers and screwdrivers into the tin nooks and crannies of the foot's guts, I realized the lone plastic part could only fit into one impossible hole.

Let's just say I had to sweet talk it into that spot with a long metal stick. It was quite naughty.  

As the show ended, so did my tinkerings. I poured another glass of vino, applauded the truly brilliant (and unsettling-- did an opposing spy install an observation device in my hotel room? Must check that out) episode, and patted myself on the back for being  Such. A. BADASS. Yeah, my machine was the wrong color! The wrong age! (hrm, sounds familiar...) But i beat the odds! I fixed it all by myself! And I even remembered to unplug the presser foot while I jammed metal and flesh into every steel corner for twenty minutes! Ruggy would be so proud!

With a force borne out of victory, I plopped myself down on the hotel-side-table-serving-as-sewing-chair. I carefully lined up my sweet Ricky with the edge of the hotel-dresser-turned-on-its-side-serving-as-sewing-desk. I leaned over to plug the foot back into the socket, and of course, found it already plugged in, as it had been for the last twenty minutes.

I'm assuming the fact that the thingamabob was plastic was my saving grace. Ruggy says I should've just jumped into the bathtub while I was at it. 

So, apparently, there's something to be said for plastic parts.

Touché, Mr Federman.

special delivery

did you get a valentine yesterday?  i got chocolate treats everywhere and we decided on an impromptu night out at the new indian joint.  for some reason no one thinks indian for valentine's.  (at least not in new york. sorry karen.  i would have airmailed you some had i known the birthday girl desired it.)

mais, i didn't get a thing for my guy.  well, unless you count incredibly bitter yet absurdly weak coffee.  how i managed to make that combo cup is beyond me.  ruggy is always the first to rise and make us a delicious pot of chemex.  i snuck out of bed yesterday morning, deciding it would make a nice treat if i did the grinding.  (WHAT.) unfortunately, my grind was too fine.  (WHAT.)  he loved it anyways.  (WHAT.)

if your valentine was as lackluster as me, i present to you, through the magic of teh interwebz,  some vintage love. hop in the limo, mr. mouse is waiting.

papa ruggy understands my obsession over vintage goods.  well, maybe not understands, but he realizes it's there and he's tickled to support it.  last christmas he presented me with a box of greeting cards, sent by his parents and their parents and so on and so forth.  as always, it struck me that people paid more attention to detail then.  real feathers!  cotton batting!  i rifled through the box with pleasure.

did someone say rifle?  take the young lad above.  that's an actual bar of metal inserted into the front.  oh yes. nothing says i love you like cupid coming to find you avec shotgun.

the inside of this card is even sweeter than the front.  to robert, from john poe.  pretty certain this is first grader range.  i remember hoping desperately for valentines in school, and i remember girls giving girls cards, but i never saw little boys exchange them.  in fact, at my extremely diverse, forward thinking east coast school, somebody would've been decked.  but here, decades ago, in a little southern town...well there you have it. 

i'll be sending one of you a sewist's valentine soon.  MAN do y'all like chalk markers! and crayola crayons, apparently.  who knew.

ice cream man: the adult version

 

mid morning sunday, there was the clang of a bell outside our building, like an old schoolhouse call, or maybe a dinner bell on the ranch, something that sounded like the 1941's best ice cream truck in the world. i ran to the window. NO WAY, i breathed, as a black and white beauty rolled by, emblazoned with words in cursive: Mike's Sharpening.

 

this sent me into a mini frenzy, bouncing between desk and sofa and cat like a pinball. ruggy! i yelled. should i go get my scissors sharpened? ruggy raised his eyebrows. if you put some pants on.

 

a second glance out the window confirmed that mike and his truck were moving on down the road. SCREW IT, i said, grabbed my shears and threw on my floor length down coat.

 

mike had paused halfway down the block, allowing new yorkers to let their curiousity get the best of them. normally rageful traffic paused, and let me dart out into the street with delight. the back of mike's truck was open: well hello, how are you today. HI I'M FINE THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER. mike, to his credit, did not turn the lunatic lady in tony the tiger pajama pants and pink puffy moon boots away. are these worth sharpening? i cut through two metal pins with them... mike eyed them. i eyed his left thumb, which was heavily bandaged to roughly the size of a snowball. i counted this as a good sign. yes dear, these are good scissors. i handed over my bit up ginghers, and, sparks flying, mike restored them to their original brilliance in five minutes. this beauty entertained me as mike and apprentice did their work...

 

 

is she the sweetest or WHAT. now be careful with these, the handle will be hot, mike instructed. i gleefully handed over a fiver, skipped back up the block, and cackled as my ginghers sliced like butter through a leather remnant. the transformation was so good, i ran right back out with my replacement ginghers and an eight inch chef's knife. by this time mike had attracted a little crowd. a doorman from down the block held a pair of orange handled fiskars with great tenderness. neighbors scurried out of buildings with entire butcher's blocks. a jogger struck up a conversation with me. does he come here all the time? she queried hopefully. nope! only like every three months he said! and there's no number on his truck or anything, he doesn't even tweet! i got so excited when i saw him, i ran out here in my PAJAMAS!

 

two minutes into ranting at her i realized i hadn't brushed my teeth yet.

 

 

the fact that anyone would strike up a conversation with a woman wearing frosted flakes, HOLDING AN EIGHT INCH KNIFE, only speaks to the wonderment that mike's truck caused. suddenly hyper aware of my coffee breath, i held in my sigh of relief as mike handed me my wares. now be careful when you're doing dishes, this'll cut ya!

 

is that what happened to his thumb?

 

i've heard of this sort of thing, but never in manhattan. at least not present day manhattan. and i missed out on sharpening my mundial thread clippers! mike, you beautiful man, i'll be waiting for you. and this time my teeth will be brushed.

 

the bow-ie shirt

the first installment in my sewing with a semi half assed plan is finished! accordingly, it did not go according to plan.

the perp: mccalls, 8348.  you see, the bow tie, she was too big.  or rather, too weighty.  that keyhole neck opening did not exist until well into sewing.  when this shirt had a collar and two-inch wide ties, the neck looked like it was trying to do me bodily harm.  so i snipped out a keyhole opening and enclosed the raw edges with self made bias tape.  et voila! 

(yes, it still drags.  but it's no longer choking me.)  

the cuffs weren't much more pleasing.  they were also trying to kill me.  and doing a piss poor job of it, as strangulation around the mid arm is a hairbrained way to do anyone in.  judge and jury, i sentenced the ill willed cuffs to death and hacked them off.  guillotine.  old school in kalkatroona, baby.  after evening up the slice, i blind stitched a nice wide one inch hem at cuff, and told the sleeve it was better off without that bad influence.

oh, why yes, that is a horse of a different color.  while i was playing around with photoshop to coax the silk shirt into the right shade of IRL purple, i found i wished it were another hue altogether.  i can't have my way in my closet, but i can haz it here...

wouldn't it be so great in this colorway?!  i love how the blue plays with those ikat shapes.  are they ikat?  eyes? navajo thingies?  

the sleeve cap had about 5 inches of ease, which i mostly took out.  in hindsight i was probably overzealous.  the shirt wins that decision, it lawyered up.  

OH I WISH IT WAS WHITE.  it's so clean and chic and it matches the glass beads i chose for fun!  and, you know, no one ever finds a white shirt guilty.

but no, it is purple.  for you peeps who just look at pictures, let me reiterate, it is indeed purple, i did not make four colorways of a botched vintage bow tie shirt.  and although i still like it, i'm gonna have to let it do a little time in solitary confinement.  i blame it on photoshop, but the shirt is taking the fall.

the mystery of the blue basement dress.

i seriously hope i am about to blow your minds.  i don't know that anyone but fellow sewasuarus rexi will understand the enormity of this find.  and believe me, i've tested this story on the common man.  THE COMMON MAN DOES NOT GET IT.

on our second to last day in seattle, i found myself with a free hour.  ninety percent of the time, sixty minutes to spare equals fabric shopping.  i'd already tromped through the one enticing fabric store in town (more on that later), so i decided to search out a thrift store that cindy of cation designs offered up in an email exchange.

cindy, i owe you big time.

i had spent the better part of my free hour in an overpriced antiques market on stewart.  my second stop, yesterdaze in pike place market, had disappeared, and i stumbled upon a small, semi dismal thrifty joint by accident.  i don't remember if it even had a sign out front, but it was around shop number 315.  (that's the third floor of the market, though it seems you're in the basement.)  i made a beeline for the sewing section in the back, which consisted of several small shelves that i combed through like a CSI agent.  there had to be gold here.  HAD TO BE.  i would not leave seattle without a vintage prize!

sadly, the patterns didn't compare to my stash at home.  the vintage curtains would take up valuable packing space. and god knows i'm not in need of bra hooks.

but wait...carefully folded, tied up in green yarn...a lace bundle...with a mysteriously note in cursive..."cut pattern!  do not unwrap!"

this order, of course, was not meant for me.

i marched up to the gentleman behind the counter and announced that we would indeed be tearing into this bundle.  i am a professional, i assured him.  as long as you know how to put it back together, he replied with some trepidation.  and then....

you see before you eleven finished pattern pieces.  vintage lace.  fully underlined.  just waiting to be sewn up. 

oh HAI adorable sleeves.  in the store, all i got to was the back bodice and the front skirt panel before i knew: for eight bucks, i was IN.  later on, during a quick break at work, i unfurled my purchase.  a pick me up, if you will.  

that's the inside of the front bodice.  that's hair canvas interfacing, and crazy heavy satin tape reinforcement.

OH I'M SORRY IT HAS FULLY FINISHED YOKE POCKETS JUST WAITING TO BE INSERTED.

i feel i've used my caps locks ration up for this post, but THIS NECKLINE IS KILLING ME!!!!  i squealed in delight, instantly ducking my head out from my hidey hole to see if any co-workers noticed.  they didn't.  so i squealed louder and got their attention.  sadly, as referenced in the first paragraph, the common dinosaur does not get it.

but you do, don't you?  have you ever run across this sort of thrifting score?  yes, you'll find plenty of handmade dresses already done up and needing mending love... but a puzzle, waiting patiently to be put together?  for years?  those treasures go in the bin before ever making it to the shelves!  how many hands has this dress passed through?  was it made, and then taken apart?  there are stitching holes on unpicked darts, the hem and sleeve edges are already finished, perhaps pointing to a refashion (egads, could it be a muslin?) but the bottom pocket edges are open.  yet, the armhole edges are yellowed!  help me nancy drewasaurus rex!  

whatever its history, i'm giddy with excitement.  we arrived back home in NY in the wee hours of the morning.  am i unpacking the six suitcases?  no.  did i  carefully iron all eleven pieces of my prize so that i could show you immediately?  yes.  now: anyone out there recognize that neckline from a pattern?  that would be KILLER.

(don't forget to enter my craftsy course giveaway for a prize of your own, it endeth tomorrow at noon EST!)

it's a love hate thing

first of all, can i tell you how happy it makes me that you fell in love with this man and his music like i did?  i have nothing to do with it other than being fortunate enough to have ruggy find it and share it with me, it's not like i can be proud of its existence in a creative sense, but somehow when peeps share your love of music it does something to you, personally.   

lots of blogger sharing has been going on these past months, and i did a little mixing of gifts from two loverly friends-- miss peanut butter macrame, also known as lady katza, and she of the perfect nose, tj. the former sent a box chock full of goodies for which i did absolutely NOTHING, and the latter sent a box chock full of goodies for which i went downtown and shopped a little swaparroo for.  so basically i got to shop and open prizes.  

HOW APPROPRIATELY AND SUPREMELY BRATTY OF ME. 

more details on all the prizes to come... but for now, look at this floral chiffon tj sent me and feel the jealous rage begin.  it's okay, you can hate.  i would if you had it.  you may quell your rage by knowing  it drove me insane.  slip.  per.  RY.   obviously, it's chiffon, i knew that going in.  so did i use any of the many tricks i've read about to cut it out?  did i pin it to my pattern, did i use an extra swath of tissue paper, did i EVEN USE MORE THAN ONE PATTERN WEIGHT?  no.  i threw a marble coaster in the middle of each pattern piece and call it good.

i don't know why i did that.  lately i've abandoned pinning for pattern weights.  let me clarify; marble coasters. they're flat, they're heavy, and they make a very nice place for my drink of choice.  but apparently, the cocktail was strong while i was cutting this baby. 

i used lady katza's gifted vintage pattern, an "anne adams instructor" pattern, one of those beautiful oldies with no pattern markings.  i like using them, it's a treasure hunt figuring out what all the hole punches mean.  

this is my attempt at those see through dresses you wear avec high waisted panties.  the pattern itself didn't call for bands around the skirt, i just slashed it where i wanted to insert lace, figuring my perfectly straight cuts would produce the results i wanted.  well.  the lace was straight.  the chiffon, she was quite drunk.  when i unfolded my slices, i found i had managed to make four perfectly U shaped panels.  i put them aside, refreshed my glass, and stomped away.

later on in the week i decided the world would not end if i sewed it up.  i eyeballed out the curves and somehow it all ended up straight (unlike the bottom crop of this picture).  i'm telling you: perfectly rectangular slices of lace + waterslide shaped panels of chiffon =  straight hem.  no clue how that equation worked out.  

now lemme show you the bad.  you'd think, after the sewing gods blessed my wonky ass cuts with success, i would appease them by finishing the insides perfectly.  you'd be 80% right.  i've never been good at divine offerings.  but i made a perfect little baby hem.  i french seamed all the lace.  i enclosed the raw edges at neck edges and waist seams with contrasting bias tape.  yet somehow i could not be bothered to line the waistband.  i just left the interfacing exposed.  THE GODS ARE ANGERED.

but i'm happy.

thooooose were the daaaaays

my day 11 outfit for mmm reminded me of just how awesomely intricate RTW pieces were back when our parents walked to school uphill-both-ways-in-the-snow, so i had to get some close ups for you.  like i said, i'm pretty sure this was a mommaballoona maternity dress.  look at the embroidery on this little piece of cotton heaven!  i love all the angles and the little insets and trim... the buttons are from my stash, it used to have small plastic jobs that didn't seem to have the same standards as the rest of this dress.  i topstitched it like crazy in gold, carefully hiding and tucking all the worn places away.  it feels like a faded photograph on, and i always just barely iron it for fear of it disappearing completely.

i found this frock in my parent's magical attic (no longer in existence, sadly for me and probably a source of great relief for parental kalkatroonans).  it didn't matter how many times i'd sneak up there, i would Always. come out with some treasure.  the magnitude of the prize dictated whether i would show it to said parents, or stuff it in my overnight bag.  in my mind this was not stealing; it was a rescue mission.

i like my mind.

this stitched belt was rescued by ruggy from his dad's Oh My God We Are Getting Rid Of EVERYTHING period.  you know that phase, yes?  when you can't stand your closets and shelves and cupboards any more?  and then lament over everything you maniacally tossed?  oh, the wondrosities that were fated to boxes by the side of the road.  and the thing is, i probably wouldn't have known to save any of it even if i'd been there.  i looked at ruggy like he'd been hit on the head with too many sports related flying objects when he brought this belt home.  it came with a joe namath polyester button down (as in, the tag said joe namath menswear, and the shirt had repeating drawings of joe namaths surrounded by women) and a pair of acid purple bell bottom jeans.  i was all into the jeans.  sadly, my ass was NOT.  circa 70s ruggian dad apparently had a booty the size of one of my thighs.

even though papa ruggy was eager to let this stuff go, he made us promise we would never get rid of the shirt & belt.  (the jeans were abandoned shortly after arrival.  it was too depressing.)  i'm glad we made that promise, as i wear the belt constantly now... we'll see if joe namath ever makes it into heavy rotation.  (ba DUM dum.)

i left many, many accessories behind in NY, so the only embellishment for this outfit was a pair of earrings found last christmas with mother ruggy.  they were fifty cents.  THEY WERE FIFTY CENTS.  hand painted!  i lurve them.  

(now... dad du kalkatroona, if only you'd find that lions head gold necklace, i could dub this ensemble the Parental Parade Package.  or was it swallowed by magical attic?)

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!

like white on rice

 

i wore this dress two christmases ago during the peak of my, ahem, monthly strife. no, let's call a spade a spade. it was an all out NUCLEAR WAR in my uterus.

ballsy, no?

although said strife is now a happy little walk through the park, this baby has stayed in the closet since then. you really can't go galavanting around in a floor length white dress more than once. 

it's made from this great vintage pattern i swapped with the ever rocking emilykate. loooove this pattern and will use it for the summer soon! i seriously made this in one night. i got home from work to find a gene kelly marathon on.  ruggy was sound asleep in another time zone, and i was going stag to my office christmas party the next day. i had a very sad black sweater dress to wear. gene told me it simply wouldn't do. (he said it with a gentle smile though, he's so caring, that man.) so, downstairs landlord and his rule of no noise after 8pm be damned, i whipped out the vintage jackhammer sewing machine and worked in a happy musical frenzy till 3 am. 

but... what the hell do i do with this white elephant now?! dye it? keep it for my possible future twin daughters to fight over (not preggers, mom and dad.)? it's made of this great textured jersey knit, and it's actually kind of heavy. i was nice and toasty that night. i even tied it up into a high knot when the evening carried me & my coworkers to a salsa club. 

advice, anyone?