On dress

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine vented to Facebook about an uncomfortable experience they had while dressed in vintage attire.  Apparently a couple of uncouth cads approached my friend and proceeded to berate her for "celebrating a terrible time in history."  After all, it was during the past that we had mass oppression, bigotry, racism, sexism, Nazism, and a whole slew of other offensive -isms.  These boorish boobs actually tried to shame her for her clothes.  I suspect the irony was totally lost on them.

Now, I have been dressing in vintage and vintage-styled clothing for many years.  Not once have I been chastised for it. (Perhaps being a big girl helps here.) It seems that most people recognize that an appreciation of the fashions, hairstyles, shoes, and art (music, films) of an era does not equate to accepting the entire culture without reservation.

For all we know, Margie here could be pointing
out key points of her Feminist Manifesto

Lest anyone doubt, let me take this time to put any questions to rest:  I am a feminist.  I am an open-minded thinker.  I am a supporter of equal rights.  I am an environmentalist.    And, yes, I dress like a woman of the past; a woman who may have struggled had she shared my views during her time.

While I may daydream about how wonderful it would be if folks returned to a few habits from the past, oppression is certainly not one of them!  (But while we’re on the subject, might I just suggest that we do make an effort to not look like we’re ready for Zumba class when we are going out to dinner?)  I wear what I do for the same reason that you do: I like how I look it them/they're comfortable/they're clean.  

My clothes are not a political statement. My hair isn’t meant to suggest that I want to return to an era of segregation, sexism, and oppression.  My home decor does not imply anything other than my taste in furniture is decidedly different from the average Ikea shopper.  If you want to know what I think about a particular subject, you'll get a much clearer answer by actually asking me versus just assuming based on the sort of frock I put on. ;)

an invitation

You're Invited!

What: A Pity Party for Lily

When: Right Now

When I was expecting my daughter, my friends were very happy to have me along--if only to be the designated driver.  I lapped up the attention, though, because I knew once I transitioned into motherhood my social calendar would diminish.  It did, of course, once Taylor was born.  Friends who called me every weekend to invite me out suddenly could not even be bothered to call to say, "hello."  It wasn't exactly unexpected, but it did help me to see which of my friends I could really count on.  Thankfully there were still a handful of folks who made a point of including me/visiting me.

When Brian and I learned that we were expecting Declan, I knew that--again--we'd have to curtail many of our social activities.  But I think that I'd forgotten how it feels to be sidelined while the rest of the world continues to party and continues to play.

--It's probably time that I disclose an important fact--I'm a lousy friend.  Hmmph, well, maybe not lousy, but I just do not know how to put it.  While I have the best of intentions, I just don't always know how to be friend.  I could lay the blame at the fact that growing up I often moved schools (or homes) and therefore never really learned how to grow and maintain a friendship.  I excelled at making friends, but I've struggled to know how to cultivate that new friendship into something lasting.  As such, I am never sure when to give a friend space, and when to catch up.  I struggle to determine if a phone call/message is well-timed and often err on the side of caution by deciding not to butt in.  Why would they want to hear from me?  Wouldn't they rather talk to someone more interesting/fun/personable?  I certainly do not want to be a pest.

It seems that one of the main consequences of my ignorance is that people--friends--see me as uninterested or disconnected.  Aloof.  The reality is that I often just do not know what to do.  But I digress.--

So here I am, watching the world continue to go by, only now it's probably worse thanks to our now-super-connected-social-media-addicted society.  Whereas before I only suspected that people were having a great time without me, now I KNOW that they are having a great time without me.  And I sit here struggling with how to handle it.  

I don't want to call folks and ask to be included because I was taught that inviting oneself is terribly rude.  Besides, if someone wanted my company, they would have asked me, right?  

Now, some might argue that this post is a passive-aggressive plea for inclusion.  And no matter how much I could protest such an assessment, I suppose that it is.  As I write this, I've been struggling with whether or not to even post.  I certainly do not want to appear passive-aggressive, but I also want to get this off my chest, though not to anyone in particular.  And, as stated before, I'd like to return to being a more prolific blogger.  So, why not start things off by making something of a confession and talking about my strange inner-monologues?  And isn't passive-aggressive pleas for attentions what blogging is all about!?  (Perhaps that's fodder for future post.)

On a more positive note, I was actually invited to too many activities this weekend.  I actually had to turn down one invitation because I had already committed to another!  While it certainly bummed me out to be missing out on one celebration, I did have a fabulous time at a party last night.  And I do have a very full weekend scheduled for next weekend, too.  So my belly-aching and b*tching is really dumb.  My friends DO want to spend time with--just not every waking moment.  (And who could blame them?)

The reality is that I do have plenty to do--sometimes a little too much, even.  So why I am still feeling blue about the events that I am missing?  

Insert all manner of curse words here

(Note: I am typing this one-handed, thanks to a nursing baby D.  Please overlook any typos.)

I am ready to scream.  My sewing machine has failed me.  Again.

A few weeks ago, I got my crafty little hands on a copy of the Colette Sewing Handbook.  (As mentioned on this blog before.)  I was instantly inspired.  I immediately decided that i needed fabric.  A trip to the LA fabric was in order!

Alas, caring for an infant, plus lack of funds meant that several days on the calendar flew by before I finally pleaded with dear hubby for cash and settled on making a quick trip to a M&L Fabrics in Anaheim instead.  There I found some great cottons for a skirt, and an okay gaberdine for trousers.  No nice georgette or chiffon, though, for a blouse or two.  So, a fabric district trip is still in my future.

With fabric, book, patterns, and notions, I was ready for the most loathsome part of sewing--cutting the fabric.  I hate tracing the pattern (a necessity this time as I want to keep it intact for when I am back to a pre-pregnancy figure).  I abhor laying out the pieces.  I cringe at the thought of hunching over the table cutting out pieces.  Worst part of sewing, no doubt.  It isn't nearly as bad when I've had a nice large surface at just the right height, but our living space is so cramped these days that I must suffer to use what i have--our dining table in our over-full dining area.

A few days ago, I began the dreaded task.  Got the pattern transferred to paper, pressed the fabric, readied the cutting surface, laid out the fabric and began tracing the pattern onto the fashion fabric.  But before I could finish, life resumed and I returned to my domestic duties.  The following day, between lack of help with Declan and volunteer obligations, I got nothing done.  Then it was grocery day--another day of no progress.  Finally a day to work--today!

I finished all tracing, pinning, and cutting.  Readied the machine.  Cleaned it, threaded.  Was able to sew a few darts and had just moved onto zigzagging the pattern piece edges when it happened.  The machine started skipping stitches, the bobbin tension was a mess.  I rechecked for threads in the bobbin case--none.  I replaced the needle--problem persisted.  I cleaned the machine a second, then third, then fourth and fifth time.  Yet each attempted to sew produced the same maddening mess.

I was nearly as unraveled as my bobbin thread!

See, for most of my life as a sewist, I have had to suffer with inferior machines.  My mother was a cheapskate who could not fathom spending more than $75 for a machine.  But this machine is not, or rather was not supposed be like any of those other garbage sewing machines.  I spent a small fortune on it, for starters!  And it sewed like a dream at first!  A true workhorse, just like the salesman said.

Last winter, I decided to sew myself a new bag.  I was working on one of the folded handles when I broke a needle.  No biggie, just switched out the needle and tied to resume sewing, only it immediately broke that needle.  A third needle and a bit of troubleshooting and I see that something is terribly off.  The hook tip in the bobbin case was not moving in sync with the needle.  Naturally, this meant a trip to the shop for a repair.

I was dispirited to learn that the repair was bound to take weeks--and it did, three to be exact.  While I may happily go without sewing for several weeks, it is because I chose to do so.  To be in the middle of a project, but be forced to wait weeks to resume left me quite dejected.  But once the machine was fixed and cleaned, I happily resumed the purse.  (Which ultimately turned out only okay.  Lack of satisfactory hardware meant that I was left without the handle I had hoped for, but that's fuel for another post.)

Point of this digression being, as my machine was in the shop less than a year ago the last place thing that I'd want to have happen was yet another problem with the machine.

As I was near tears, I begged dear hubby to take the machine to the shop.  Visions of my dissolving into sobs on the showroom floor persuaded me to stay behind with the baby.  I was so hoping that Brian would arrive at the shop, the experts would look it over and chuckle at how some silly something or other caused my problems, quickly fix it, and all would be right with the world.  But I also knew that the odds that it would be some major problem were more likely given my luck.  The last thing that I need is another forced three-week hiatus from sewing.

I am writing all this up know in the hopes that it'll somehow allow for the universe to smile upon my misfortune.  Perhaps in committing my frustration to ePaper, the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever divinity will look down and decide that I need a well-earned break.  Just maybe, events will turn in my favor.

Let's hope, shall we?

This bloke is ready to teach my machine a thing or two

i take it all back!!

Declan just fell asleep, completely on his own, in his swing.  I take it all back.  All that talk of guilt and such.

This morning, he was a bit cranky (yes, teething already).  I thought I'd do a little experiment and I placed him in the swing.  Almost instant calm.  Well, for a moment.  After about fifteen minutes in the swing, he began to fuss again.  So, he came out of the swing for some playtime.

About an hour ago he started to really fuss.  Poor fella.  He was obviously tired, but did not want to eat.  We walked and talked.  We danced.  We played.  Still cranky.  So, I popped him into the swing again and calm.  Calm which eventually led to sleep!  Joy of joys!!

One Swingin' Fella

And so it begins... the guilt.  Nice baby-faced helpings of it.

Let me back up and bring you up to speed.  At the end of this month, Husband and I will be going on a "cruise" aboard the Art Deco gem, the Queen Mary.  Every Labor Day weekend, the Art Deco Society of Los Angeles hosts a festival of Art Deco lectures, cocktail parties, and just all out splendor aboard this floating hotel.  It was at this festival three years ago that my husband and I became engaged.  Two years ago, we were married there.  It is a special place and a special event.  Husband and I save so as to be able to attend each year.

Since before the Little Fella was born, his aunt has offered to sit for us.  Declan will be with us on Friday evening, so as to quell some of the questions about him.  But I am grateful that my sister-in-law has been eager to help us by watching Declan on Saturday and Sunday.  In order to get Declan prepared for playing and sleeping with her, we decided to chuck some money at the baby industry and purchase a baby swing.

To back up a bit further, I had initially decided that we would be a non-swinging family.  Sure, my daughter ADORED hers when she was an infant, but I had a lot more room at my disposal then.  Currently, the four of us live in a meager two-bedroom apartment where space is at a premium.  Have you seen the current army of baby swings?!  They're HUGE!  So I made an executive decision and vetoed the swing idea.  Plus, as a proponent of attachment parenting, my hope was to wear the baby most of the time. Too bad he doesn't always want to be worn...

What is it about babies that all the best-laid plans manage to go right out the window on a whim?

Since the Little Fella is not always keen to be in the Moby Wrap or his Hotsling, or even his Gemini carrier, we purchased for him a bouncy seat a few weeks back.  He LOVES being in the bouncer while Husband or I cook.  Declan is just the most contented little guy there, however he will not fall asleep in it.

Naptimes around here happen one of two ways.  1) Declan falls asleep while nursing and I refrain from doing anything until he wakes.  2) Declan falls asleep in his Hotsling while his dad finger-feeds him.  As Declan will be under the care of neither one of us for two days during the festival, we need a new sleep option.  Thus did we decide to suck it up and buy a baby swing.

We figured that our odds for getting him to sleep without boob or sling would be best with a swing.  Now we just have to get him used to it.  THIS is where my guilt comes in to play.  When I put him into the swing, he looks at me as if to ask, "Why don't you want to hold me?"  He doesn't fuss, and doesn't even look sad or upset.  But my mind immediately and irrationally imagines him questioning me.

This ought to make for a few interesting days.