Sewing For Stress Relief?

I'm relying on the Pussy Bow Blouse to help me cope with some stress this week. Because, I find, obsessing over fit issues and fussy fabric that just wants to go off-grain helps me stave off the panicky feelings creeping in as I get ever closer to Friday.

Here's the fabric: a cream silk chiffon printed with purplish-brown birds

I also keep trying to tell myself that no matter how bad Friday is, it will be a cakewalk compared to getting punched in the face by a crackhead in front of your preschool-aged daughter.

Because Friday I am finally having the minor plastic surgery needed to fix the small deformity left behind by getting punched by in the face by a crackhead in front of my preschool-aged daughter.

And I am nervous. Very nervous. Surgery always carries the risk of infection, and this one also has a chance of not improving my chin at all (or maybe my surgeon just said that to lower my expectations?).  I am also conflicted about undergoing a cosmetic procedure. I talked myself out of it at least 100 times in the past year (including 10 times today), convincing myself for a moment each time that the small deformity on my chin is somehow something to be proud of (I took a punch!) — or that I was vain for wanting to erase it (love thyself as thou art!). A couple of people have told me it's badass (I took a punch, after all!), and my husband claims to not even notice it.

But then I look in the mirror, and my gaze is immediately drawn to my chin, where my scar is so thick it casts a shadow beneath it (actually, my surgeon informed me, it's not even a true scar: the guy punched me in the mouth so hard, my teeth cut clean through my chin under my bottom lip. As it healed, there was not enough tissue structure to keep the top half of my chin from slumping slightly over the bottom half, hence the shadow). No amount of makeup can make it look better — unless I were to apply it with a spackle knife, perhaps.

I'm also conflicted because I have a daughter. She's only four, so we're not at the point yet where I have to work with her against our culture's unreasonable standards of beauty to maintain a healthy self-esteem. She's young enough that she's still enamored with her own reflection, and the only body modification she would ever imagine wanting is wings. At this point it seems best to lead by example: I don't put down my own figure or face in front of her. We talk about exercising for strength and eating well for our health. I would never even muse about making improvements to my self with surgery.

It took me months just to call the surgeon recommended to me by a friend of a friend. And then while I sat in the waiting room for the consultation, I considered leaving. Even now, as I write this, I am contemplating not going through with it. Is it really worth all the trouble? I could still cancel. My husband doesn't even notice it.

Searching for photos to illustrate this post, I'm anxious again. It's so small; in some photos, you can barely tell. If I posted a close-up pic, you would probably tell me, "It's no big deal" (which is not what I want to hear right now, by the way, so I decided against posting any pics). So what is my problem? Maybe I need therapy instead. Or regular massages. I can't afford those, however, so I'll keep working on this blouse. 

Accommodating my wide hips: A slash-and-spread alteration to the Pussy Bow Blouse pattern

Looking in the mirror, I feel entirely justified. You really have to see it in 3D to appreciate it; the scar sticks out so far. And I feel like there's more to it than just the scar. My face looks different since the attack. I look like I'm holding all my anxiety in my jaw, where I was punched. I don't know if getting the scar fixed will help release the physical memory of violence that has me subconsciously steeling my jaw at all times, even in a smile. I'm hoping if I spend less time looking at it, I will be less worried about something so terrible happening again, and maybe I can relax.

Anyway, I liked my face just fine as it was. I never asked for this. I didn't deserve to get punched in the face (nobody does). Why should I have to live with it, no matter how small? 

My blood pressure spikes every time I think about it. They better give me some good downers or I may just jump off the chair. I've considered asking friends for spare anxiety meds. I hope I can make it through the week without freaking out completely. Yesterday I sewed a collar to cope. Today I'll work on the sleeves if I get anxious:

At the rate I am going, I should have this blouse sewn by the big day. (But I think I'll save modeling it until after the bandage comes off!).

Has sewing ever helped you get through a stressful time? Or do you end up mangling a project out of distraction?

Ornament Exchange BIG REVEAL!

Did that title get you excited? Are you sick of seeing other's Christmas trees yet? Not me. 

Other than the eight new ornaments I received from the other participants in this exchange (which were SO delightful to get in the mail!), I'm most excited about the new colored lights we (OK, I) opted for this year. Ever since I've had my own tree, I've done white lights. But since our tree ends up covered in mostly kid-made ornaments, I was wanting more of a retro, family-friendly vibe, a la "Christmas Story":

Yes, it is a small tree. And yes, it was still hella expensive!

We don't usually do much decorating other than the tree. We live in an apartment, so we don't have a mantle. Any shelf space we've got is prime real estate for stuff we actually use....but this year I did switch out pictures for a Christmas-themed cluster that includes the embroidered titles from my family Christmas music video (Have you seen it already? Go check it out.)

And now, for the ornaments (follow the various links to go straight to the tutorials posted for each):

Kelli of True Bias started this little ornament exchange. She sent me this whimsical little red peacoat, which I loved so much, I tried out her tutorial — twice! (see below)

These are my two attempts at Kelli's pattern. I opted for more sewing over gluing (pom-pom buttons!)

Here's Megan Nielson's precious leather and suede acorn:

Mika of Savory Stitches must have a ton of patience. Just look at all the beading on her lovely peace dove ornament:

 Lucy just LOVES this narwhal ornament by Jen of Grainline Studio. In fact, she was pretty pissed at me about it. Pissed that it's mine, and NOT HERS:

As for Dixie DIY's tasty-looking peppermint ornament, I had to remind my kid twice not to lick it:

This Holly Jolly Pug by Sonja of Gingermakes almost didn't make it onto our tree. My kid was convinced she needed to send it to her aunt, who actually owns two pugs. I told her Anne can make her own pug ornament (that's what these tutorials are for, right?):

I'd never seen Miranda's One Little Minute blog before this exchange, but this lady is seriously talented (in case you need more evidence than this intricate paper reindeer ornament she designed, go see her blog. She's a woman of many talents. And prolific too.)

And last, but never least, Maddie's adorable yarn ball ornament, which looks like a neat, easy one to make in a pinch for a gift:

So there's my tree! I better get back to work on my final Christmas project: a picture book I wrote and am illustrating for my kid. It's proving to be a little ambitious, just because of time constraints. I'll post a preview pic soon!

Merry Christmas all,

Suzanne

Best Thing/Worst Thing — One More Thing!

I love you all so much. Thanks for sharing anecdotes about your own challenges, and how you deal. The best way to gain perspective is definitely to shift gears from wallowing in your own misery to feeling empathy for another.

Immediately after posting yesterday I regretted not linking to or mentioning this amazing column in the Atlantic, which ruminates much more eloquently on the subject of trying to be happy with what you've got. The writer has a disabled son, and beautifully reframes the question constantly posed to women today: "Can we have it all?" For those who haven't the time to read it all, here's an excerpt:

When I look at friends and acquaintances, many with perfectly beautiful children and wonderful lives, and see how desperately unhappy or stressed they are about balancing work and family, I think to myself that the solution to many problems is deceptively obvious. We are chasing the wrong things, asking ourselves the wrong questions. It is not, "Can we have it all?" -- with "all" being some kind of undefined marker that shall forever be moved upwards out of reach just a little bit with each new blessing. We should ask instead, "Do we have enough?"

I highly recommend reading it. I have it bookmarked and go back to it when I need a reminder that my life is not too terrible (and in fact is often pretty great). Maybe we can have it all — just maybe not all at once. So the regularly scheduled date nights and Pinterest-perfect decor will just have to wait a while. (Of course, the question still remains: Whither the articles on whether men can have it all? But that's a question for another day.)

I also need to thank Rachel of My Messings for nominating me for the One Lovely Blog Award! I've never been nominated for one of these inter-blogger pat-on-the-back awards, so I really appreciate the shout-out. The idea is to pass it on, showing your appreciation for others. Hopefully my picks haven't already participated in this particular award...if they have, I won't be offended if they neglect to pass it on. We can't do it all, after all!

The rules for the One Lovely Blog Award are as follows:

• Thank the person who nominated you and link back to him/her in your post. 
• Share 7 things about yourself.

• Nominate 15 bloggers you admire. (That's a lot, isn't it?!)

• Leave a comment on each of these blogs letting them know they’ve been nominated.

The seven things appear to be wide open, so here goes:

• I always check out people's butts‚ but not because I'm into asses. I'm obsessed with pocket placement and fit, and am always evaluating what is the best cut/design to trick the eye into believing you have the perfect posterior. 

• I swallow very loudly (according to my husband). Especially when I gulp water in the middle of the night. 

• I was a deckhand one summer during university.

• I've lived in the U.S. for 5 1/2 years, but stubbornly still spell it cheque and pronounce niche so it rhymes with quiche.

•  I yell at cars that cut me off when I'm crossing the street with my kid, so now at age 4 she acts like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy. I feel a little bad about that. But people need to know how unsafely they're driving! (OK, I am unrepentant, clearly).

• I'm a savant when it comes to Where's Waldo. Also, spelling and grammar errors just jump off the page at me. These two things must be related somehow.

•  I regret never learning an instrument, and hope one day I can take up drums or piano or something else totally impractical for a New Yorker.

So here are my 15 (again, that seems like a lot, right? The chance of these 15 already receiving this award are pretty high, probably). Is it against the spirit of this award to feel bad about asking them to take on the task of posting seven things and collating a list of their 15 faves? I'm a little sensitive to tasking others with one more thing because I often feel like if someone asks one more thing of me, I may just lose it. So my apologies to Rachel, but I'm going to give these ladies and gents the chance to bask in my praise without having to do anything in return:  

Another Sewing Scientist 

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

A Place in the Cloud

Balls to the Wall, Y'all

Four Square Walls

Julia Bobbin

Dixie DIY

Emily Kate

Liza Jane Sews

Male Pattern Boldness

Makes the Things

Oonaballoona

Sew Queer

True Bias

With the Crickets

I love them all. If you haven't checked them out yet and have the time, please do.

P.S. Best thing about yesterday: Barack Obama was re-elected! The election is over and we can go back to worrying about other things. Worst thing: I fell asleep before the acceptance speech, and missed seeing Michelle Obama in what I'm sure was a very lovely dress.

Best Thing/Worst Thing

This year has been a challenging one for our family. While not awful/horrible/no good/very bad like 2011 was, 2012 has forced us to dig ever deeper, drawing on reserves of endurance, patience, thrift and faith (not in a God, but each other).

My husband went back to school, and has been gone all day and night throughout most of the last 10 months. The burden of child care falls on me, and I also work from home. That we don't have family nearby who can help out (or the money to spend on a babysitter) is exhausting. I never, ever get a break. And even when I sleep, I am worrying. After all, we've spent thousands we don't even have on the hope that his talent will lead us to a more prosperous place. 

But the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel is within view. He's now interning, which is wonderful because he loves the work and is hopeful it will lead to an actual job one day soon. But for right now, life can feel grueling. I cry every other day just worrying about Christmas. The election keeps my husband up at night.

Also, four-year-olds are not the most understanding individuals; just when you are bearing the biggest load you've had to shoulder in your lifetime, they will hand you one more thing to carry — literally and metaphorically. Like, you're carrying five bags of groceries, a backpack and her scooter, and then she'll try to hand you a booger. This has actually happened. (Also, just when you're feeling terrible about yourself, that your hair needs a new cut because it's starting to look like a sheitel, that's when your kid will decide to start calling your upper arms your "chubbies." This has also happened.) 

Aside from all the work, no play and ceaseless whining, the challenge for me is being happy with what we've got for just a little bit longer. It's a difficult thing to do, though I sometimes feel like I've mastered getting by with nothing new. But then I look at Pinterest, or the well-lit blogs of those more affluent than I, and I'm down in the dumps that I have big ideas that must all wait until another day. I struggle all the time with wanting to do more, write more, sew more, create more. But all that demands resources we just don't have. 

So I'm trying to focus this week on being grateful for what I've got — and learning to enjoy the things I can do now, rather than lamenting all the stuff I want to do but can't. 

When we're feeling stressed about paying the rent or job prospects or our future in the uncertain run-up to the U.S. election, we try to calm ourselves by taking stock daily of the good things we've got going for us. It's now a nightly game to play "best thing/worst thing." We ask each other over dinner what was the best thing that happened that day (often it's just Lucy and I because Ryan works so late on weekdays), and the worst thing too. It forces us to acknowledge that even if we're feeling shitty and stressed (or are just coming down from a tantrum, as the case may be), there was something good that happened in the day, even if small. And acknowledging the worst thing of the day gives us a chance to talk it over, enjoy a little empathy, maybe find a solution, and not feel so alone in our worry over it. 

(It's also funny as hell to hear what our four-year-old will say. She's so much like me, often her "worst thing" is something that she didn't get to do — as in, "I didn't get to watch three episodes of My Little Pony. I didn't get to play with my best friend. I didn't get to eat a whole bag of Halloween candy.") 

One longer-term project I have planned for my family is a jar like this one I saw pinned on Pinterest (the source seems to have disappeared, but you can get the idea from the description below):

But instead of waiting until New Year's Eve to take stock of all the good things that have happened to us, we'll allow ourselves to read a few whenever we need to come down from an anxiety high. It will take some follow-through to remember to add items to our "good things" jar, but the benefit of perspective will hopefully be enough encouragement for me to stick with it. It's a little Oprah-iffic, I know. But it turns out I'm not all that positive a person at times. I need to work on it. 

Likewise, instead of rueing all the projects on the backburner right now because fabric is not in our budget, I've decided to take on a few meditative projects — stuff that's satisfying, but doesn't endanger my ego if it doesn't pan out. Like knitting, which I used to do (I must have; I have a large plastic container full of yarn!).

Check out this cool cuff I saw on Pinterest (which is not all "thinspiration" and hair tutorials, after all!): 

How cute is that? I used this tutorial on tying a Turkish knot (though I did two fewer twists than the tutorial suggest because I wanted it to look like the one in the above photo). It took about an hour and a half of knitting I Cord to make this. I think it could make a decent Christmas gift for friends and sisters-in-law. 

 It's warm and cozy, and chunky too — just like my chubbies (damn kids).

So how do you maintain perspective when hard times have you down?

Just stopping by to make you feel better about yourself

Can I blame the Blogger redesign for my absence? No, but it hasn't helped when I can't find the "new post" button. Can't we all just agree not to update anything for a few weeks? Ergh. I'm digressing already and I haven't begun.

When you have too many balls in the air, you have to decide which one to calmly set down and then keep going. (Because if you know me, you know I can juggle — literally! I can! — but only three balls at a time). And this blog, plus reading all other blogs, has to be the one ball I leave behind when things get busy. Because a) it doesn't make any money and b) it doesn't contribute to keeping my kid busy in any way. It's a time suck. A very enjoyable time suck. And one that I have missed.

I've been averaging 6,000-8,000 words of paid writing work each week, which means waking up at 5 a.m. to write before my kid wakes, writing while she's at nursery school, writing after she goes to bed at night, thinking about all the writing I have to do while I am doing anything else...in short, I have few brain cells left to rub together after a day of writing and taking care of a badass almost-four-year-old. Also, my husband is in school right now, so my income is sorely needed while he shifts focus to this career change, so I can't say no to anything that pays (well, SOME things, yes. Don't get any ideas. I am a lady.)

Also, the spring is a very rough time for me in NYC. I never experienced allergies until I moved here five years ago, but now for eight weeks between mid-March to mid-May I feel utterly awful. Imagine the worst cold you've had, and then imagine having it for two months. That's allergies. It's hard not to get very depressed when you know you're staring down another six weeks of feeling ill. In the middle of allergy season, I find myself going to bed at the same time my daughter does, because what would be the point of staying up any later? I feel too terrible to even want to be conscious. I can't imagine how hard it is for people who suffer from a chronic illness to be happy.

And if you know me well, you know that every Spring in the middle of allergy season, I get a cold sore under my nose from the rigors of blowing, wiping, sneezing, etc. Yes, under my nose. It looks like a crusty red Hitler mustache. And this year, I had two — one right after another. So even though I have sewn some lovely garments this Spring, there's no way anyone is taking a picture of me in them. Because: crusty, red Hitler mustache.

Right now, as I compose this blog post, I'm thinking about the writing I should be doing before my family awakes. Also, trying to think of how to entertain my kid today because my husband will be working. Time to sew? Forget about it. And now I'm thinking of how this is just one long complaint. Nobody likes listening to a kvetcher. Except when it makes you feel better about your life. If that's the case, this is practically a public service I am providing here. Go forth and enjoy your work-free, kid-free (or two-parent-with-kid) day without allergies, with an upper lip you don't have to hide behind a sandwich. Or kvetch at me: if your Spring has been shitty too, why?

No WHERE IS THE FRIGGING "POST" BUTTON? (I hate change).

To kvetch or not to kvetch

Readers, have you given up on me? My apologies for the hiatus, but my husband went back to school at the beginning of January just as my (paid) workload spiked. He's gone 16 hours some days, so there's been a lot of slack to pull up around here. And too many balls in the air makes Suzie something something, so I had to ignore my blog (and everyone else's too, lest I get too distracted and fail to meet my 1,200-word-a-day quota.)

Anyway, I am up at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday so I can fit in writing here while my family sleeps. Now, I wish I were the type of person about whom others would say, "And she NEVER once complained...." but I'm unfortunately totally not. In fact, I envy my Jewish friends and neighbours most for the fact that they have words to sum up the two things I find myself doing frequently: kvetching and schlepping. And man, do I ever hate schlepping (and do I ever kvetch about it). But if you live in New York, and particularly, if you live in New York with a kid, do you ever spend a lot of time schlepping.

So I wish I could squeeze out my first blog post in months without complaining, but that's not who I am. And if you're back here reading this after giving me up for dead, then you probably love me anyway. (And know that I love listening to your complaints too. So if you need to get something off your chest, please leave it in the comments below, and I promise to read it, nod heartily and say to my screen: "You're SO right! Uggs DO make everyone look like they have fallen arches!")

Kids really are the worst. They somehow simultaneously ignore every word you say while shouting out demands and then berating you when you don't fulfill them to their exacting preference. It's emotional abuse, spending 12 hours a day with a preschooler. Akin to working with Anna Wintour, I believe. Kids drive you to drink.

Husbands really are the worst too. They take out the vacuum to clean up because they invited their cousin over on a day you have to work from home, and then leave the vacuum in the middle of the living room floor for days....and days....until it's a week later and everything needs to be vacuumed again anyway, so you just do it and put the damn thing away, which means you totally lost this game of Vacuum Chicken. Husbands drive you to drink.

Lucky for me the only word my kid can read is her own name, and my husband never looks at my blog, so I don't have to worry about either of them reading what I have to say about them.

Did you come back here to read about sewing? I have sewn a few things in the time since I last wrote: a couple jersey tunic tops, which have been in heavy rotation. I still can't think of how to write about them in any useful way. Also: Sewaholic's Minoru jacket, which I love and have worn on several occasions because it's been eerily warm in New York this winter. I have no pictures of it yet though, because my husband is gone 16 hours a day and I have no one to help me by taking photos. Also, he takes our camera to school, so even if someone stopped by (and NO ONE ever stops by because I still haven't made friends in our new neighbourhood) there would be nothing to shoot pics with. I kvetch.

I have to sew a shirt for my daughter's BFF for her birthday, but I can't get downtown to the Garment District to buy fabric. My kid suddenly hates riding the subway (I don't blame her; from where we live now, it's a serious schlep to get anywhere). So I can't drag her with me by promising a ride on the Bryant Park carousel anymore. That used to work. Now she just looks at me like "been there, done that" and starts screeching in a way that makes my blood pressure rise instantly. Kids not only drive you to drink, they also drive you to kvetch.

I consider it success we made it out of 2011 alive

There was a point in 2011 when I somewhat seriously considered squatting. That's how desperate I felt this year.

Not squatting in an abandoned building, mind you. We have a three-year-old, after all, and I need a daily shower and coffee within moments of waking up in order to feel human. I just wondered what would happen if we stopped paying rent...how long would it take to get thrown out, and could we save enough cash in that time to make a new life somewhere other than New York? Because life in this city become pretty unbearable after I was attacked by a crackhead, just as my husband suffered a major loss of work, on the day an earthquake shook the city, in the calm before a hurricane hit. I don't remember the earthquake (nor do I recall the attack), and the hurricane proved to be no worse than any other sudden summer storm. But an intense feeling that the other shoe was about to drop remains just the same. My husband has it too; neither of us can get an email without the other one demanding what bit of bad news it could possibly be. It's a terrible way to exist.


(I also considered lottery tickets and corruption as possible ways out. But good sense and a lack of opportunity won out).

So with all this in mind you would think I'd be ready to say good riddance to 2011. But I can't run arms outstretched into the future without worrying that it could be even worse. (After I was mugged, people said to me, "Well, now you've been mugged...so you don't have to worry about THAT happening again." But life doesn't work that way. You don't get a punchcard with all the bad things that could possibly happen to you on it. If it did, there would never have been a second episode of "I Hate My Teenage Daughter").

I found out this week that the guy who punched me in the mouth is refusing a plea deal so I will have to testify in court in February. What that means is I will have to see him (most likely), and be cross-examined by his defense attorney. My brain has so far done me the huge favour of not remembering the attack (thanks, brain!). But when I saw the police detective who helped me again at the Grand Jury, I was overcome with the feeling that I knew him — that maybe we dated in highschool, and he was really sweet to me...or maybe I've seen him on TV? It's so hard to explain. But when I saw him, I thought: "I KNOW him. He was nice to me. I was grateful." I can't remember what he said, or how our interaction went, but I am certain of the feeling of relief I felt in his presence. So I am worried when I see the crackhead who punched my face in I will remember the terror I felt — though not necessarily any specifics. And then I will never be able to leave my apartment again. I really would like to be able to leave my apartment in 2012.

There were some good things about 2011, to be sure:

• I was chosen as a "Featured member" on Burdastyle.com
• My husband appeared on One Life to Live
• I won a bunch of awesome stuff
• I went to Mexico for the first time, with some of my closest friends, and had the best time ever
• Pie continued to be awesome in 2011. And I'm feeling good about its enduring greatness for 2012.
• I made some cute dresses, like this one, this one, and my favourite, which was chosen by Burdastyle.com as a top project for the year
• I won a Halloween costume contest after pestering the shit out of my friends and readers
• I won tickets to Saturday Night Live
• We moved into a bigger apartment in a quieter neighborhood, though every time we hear a car horn honk, my three-year-old daughter sighs audibly and says, "I thought this was a quiet neighbourhood." (Oy, such a kvetcher!)
• We now live across the street from the BEST bagel shop ever. There's not even a toaster (because you would be an idiot if you were to toast a Bagel Corner bagel, I guess)
• My husband got into advertising school for copywriting, and I'm so excited for him to make a career change. It will be a challenging year, but we just have to hang in there and work harder. There's no other option. Not when you have this to wake up to:

Happy New Year. Hang in there, everybody.

Back With Scars to Show

It has been weeks since I posted here. For one, we moved apartments and didn't have Internet access for a full week. But more importantly, every time I sat down to write anything, all I could think to say was, "I'm so overwhelmed, I don't know what to do." My stress level was at a solid nine because finding an apartment in New York City is like this really fun roller coaster. Because roller coasters are fun, right? That's what I hear. I've never been on one because I don't need more fear and uncertainty in my life. BECAUSE I LIVE IN NEW YORK, where you can't be certain about anything, especially where you are going to live in a month. 

Anyway, we found a great rent-controlled "Junior 4" apartment in Riverdale, a lovely quiet neighborhood in the Bronx near the Hudson River. The demographic skews about 60 years older than our old 'hood, which means it's quiet at night. No drag racing. And no crackheads. Because we live at the top of a really big hill, and crackheads, if anything, are lazy. They will choose to punch a lady in the face at the bottom of the hill every time. We don't even have a gate on our fire escape (please don't come kill me).

But it came down to the night before we had movers booked, and we still didn't know whether we had our new place for sure. We'd signed a lease after much delay. But still no keys. Our guarantor had to work out his concerns with the forms (in New York unless you make a million dollars a year, you need someone to sign in blood on your behalf). We kept packing though because the movers were coming, and new tenants were moving into our old place within days. I had Manhattan Mini Storage bookmarked on the computer in case we had to call them at the last minute to see about moving all our stuff into a giant locker and staying with friends. See what I mean about the roller coaster?

Our broker (yes, in New York, RENTERS need brokers. You have to pay a full month's rent for the opportunity to see three apartments and get an application. Our broker was great, and we don't regret working with her, or paying her fee, which she discounted — probably because we were so pathetic. But I still resent a system whereby renters have to pay to see available apartments. The only other choice is being scammed on Craigslist) reassured us. Then finally, at 6 p.m. Wednesday night, we were told it was ours. The broker would pick up the keys in the morning for us, no problem. 

The movers were on time, and worked quickly. But we had more boxes than my husband had estimated, so not all our stuff fit in the truck. And then a monsoon hit. We waited it out, and the movers left to head to our new place. My husband and I had borrowed a neighbor's car for a few days, so we crossed the street to pack in our computer and a few belongings we didn't want in the hands of the movers. But when Ryan leaned over to open the back hatch of the Volvo, his backpack split open and his laptop plus two file folders fell into a foot-deep flash flood that was racing down Riverside Drive. The computer and the file folders were gone in a heartbeat, under the car and then down the street. Ryan ran through the water and caught the file folders, but the laptop was nowhere to be seen. He took off down the length of the street, which was lined with submerged cars, all the way to the giant pool that formed at the low point near Broadway. I looked under the Volvo, thinking about how heavy this old laptop was and how it couldn't have gone far. Halfway up to my knees in dirty street water, I got a long stick and started poking at the piles of leaves trapped behind the tires, thinking maybe the laptop was also trapped. I came around the car and there it was, behind the right front tire. I pulled it out and let the water drain. The battery was gone. (Elsewhere in the city, all the sewing bloggers I read and love were having a great time at a meet-up I missed. I'm still sad about that).

The following day when we were cleaning out the old place, the police detectives who were on my case called to see whether they could come over and swab me for DNA. The guy who punched me had blood on him when he was arrested. I guess it wasn't his own. It would be great if he had my blood on him. That's unequivocal evidence. So they came to our empty apartment. It seemed so fitting that on our last minutes in the old place I would give evidence to help prosecute the guy who had effectively run us out of the neighborhood. They were so nice, it made me cry for the 10th time that day.

We've been in the old place now for a week and a half, and are still unpacking. We haven't hung a single shelf or picture. We still have to rummage through boxes whenever we need something. And everything with a pipe has busted in the first week we lived here: the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, the tub, the shower. No one has lived in this place for six years, apparently, so everything needs to be fixed. Our new super has spent so much time in our place that my daughter renamed all her baby dolls "Juan."

This past weekend we flew to Kansas City for a family wedding. Of course our flight was cancelled, because that is the kind of luck we've had this past month, and the only flight we could get was out of Newark NJ, which meant a $110 cab ride. Someday soon my stress level will return to normal, I hope.

On a more positive note, the dresses I made for the wedding (including my Perfect Fit Bombshell Dress) turned out absolutely amazing. Here's a preview (I'll be blogging them more in the days to come):

FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!

About to get married at Manhattan City Hall

Did you read the title of this post? That's what I was chanting last night to my husband on the anniversary of the day we got hitched at City Hall in Manhattan. Because we've been married four years now, and he tweeted that he started running for re-election two years ago, which sounds about right in the U.S. In Canada, our preference is to be kinda shitty until we lose a no-confidence vote, and then we're really sweet and make lots of promises (all that you have heard before) for the five weeks prior to the anniversary and hope that undoes all the damage caused by 3 years and 47 weeks of being kinda shitty.

Anyway, it's a good thing there are no term limits in marriage. But we have nothing to worry about. My husband and I are of one mind. This is a good thing when it come to dealing with our daughter. Or choosing a paint colour for our kitchen. Often our conversations go something like this:

Me: Hey, why don't we order Thai tonight?

Him: I was just thinking that too!

Me: Awesome.

But the downside of this is we are down one mind. Sharing one mind means we agree a lot, but it also means we share many of the same weaknesses. Therefore there's no one to do the heavy lifting when it comes to things like driving directions. (That's something we're both so terrible at that we made a vow to never again go to New Jersey. Getting lost in New Jersey means an hour on the wrong "express" highway and an extra $25 in tolls.) 

Pants? Pants!

As a lady with some curve in her hip (and booty), the Holy Grail of fashion for me has always been pants. They're tough to find when your proportions are a little different than the fit models used to test out a pattern. For me, if they fit at the hip, they gape at the waist. Your problem may be the opposite. And if you fit all pants perfectly, well good for you Gwenyth.

This weekend I drafted the pattern for my perfect pair of slacks. At least I'm hoping they will be perfect. I made one leg in muslin to test the fit. My helpful toddler told me I had two legs so I should make another one.

Here she is playing with playdough while I drafted yesterday during a rainstorm. (Don't judge me for the mess in our apartment. Judge my husband. Or my kid. Most of it is her junk. And the lazy thing almost never cleans up after herself.)

So here are all the damn pieces, which I cut out this morning. I choose a pinstriped brown and white heavy cotton (really, it's a denim) for the pants. I'm making the pockets from the Snoozer Loser fabric I won. The remnants from my winnings will live on in numerous projects yet, I hope. Note there are 11 pieces below. Also: I have to sew welt pockets this week. I'm going to need my Easter vacation.

Work In Progress, Plus How You Fit a Sewing "Room" Into a 1-bedroom Apartment With Three Residents

If you're wondering how to fit a sewing room into a one-bedroom apartment that you share with a grown man and a toddler (the only one among us who gets her own room, lucky bastard), here's how you do it: in between the bike-parking area, the stroller holding pen, about five feet from the front door, the kitchen, and just about everything else. In short: it's a good thing my child can be trusted with pins and scissors.

I consider this photo at left a public service announcement to all those people who are made to feel badly by looking at the lovely homes owned by curated by other bloggers. (You know who you are.) My boogers are full of teeny little fibers that float around my apartment because my sewing space is located in our home's central nervous system. When my child runs back and forth in her fancy shoes with her best friend "Camila" (a real friend who is also an imaginary friend she plays with when the actual Camila has better things to do than gallop back and forth across our apartment), she stops just short of my sewing machine pedal. When my husband needs to ask me where the butter is, I can point to it with my free hand. My family is very, very lucky I am long on patience.

And yet I will manage to find room somehow for new things like my Brother serger pictured above. I just bought it from Amazon.com after a depressing experience trying to buy one used from Craigslist. I love it and wish I had bought one years ago. It's saving me lots of time already (and patience, which I can instead dispense to my family constantly underfoot).

For example, this peachy silk blouse I am working on (pictured in pieces at right here) — I can use the serger to make gathers lickety split, finish seams and hopefully (if I can figure it out) make rolled hems. fancy! This is the blouse I'll be making with the same pattern from my last top and to go with the navy and peach skirt you can see on my dressform here.

I have some cooking to do now (darn family, always needing to eat food) so it's time for a break.

------------------------

So I realized I never actually addressed HOW you fit a sewing room into a one-bedroom apartment in this post (as the title suggests I should).  Here's my addition:

In point form:

-Shelves. Lots of them. But be careful not to kill yourself or your partner mounting them. IKEA shelving should come with complimentary marriage counselling.
-Hooks. Lots and lots of them. Get everything up on the wall, but within reach. I string things between hooks, hanging pattern pieces from the cord.
-I stand while I sew, with my machines on my drafting table. Otherwise I would need two tables of different heights. Not gonna happen unless we start eating our dinner off our bellies like cute little otters.
-Just give up on the idea that you will ever have a tidy and cute home like you did back when you had two bedrooms all to yourself in Winnipeg (and for less than half the rent we pay for one bedroom in NYC). I digress.

My Husband, the Storyteller

I met this guy here with the mandolin 5&1/2 years ago in Winnipeg. He was performing his first solo show Pentecostal Wisconsin, which is all about growing up Pentecostal in Wisconsin and then leaving it all behind. I loved the show — and his dimples even more. I tracked him down later that night and yadda yadda yadda, two years later we got married at City Hall in New York City.

Listening to him tell a good story is almost as good as seeing it live. He had a funny tale yesterday on CBC Radio's Definitely Not The Opera. It's about being humiliated by a bunch of kids. You can listen here:  http://podcast.cbc.ca/mp3/dnto_20110226_45945.mp3

Late last year I got to see Ryan perform at a storytelling night in NYC. Storytelling is super popular right now (Take the Moth, for example, which has spread from NYC to four cities and a travelling roadshow, plus a very popular podcast and celebrity storytelling nights), and it's a form in which Ryan really excels. I don't often get to see him perform because babysitters are expensive and I'm at home with our kid while he's out. But we coughed up the money so I could see him tell a story I'd heard over a dozen times, and it was so worth it to be reminded why I was attracted to him in the first place. His story is the first in this podcast of the popular Risk show: http://risk-show.com/2010/12/episode-206-eye-of-the-beholder/

Risk was created and is hosted by Kevin Allison of the legendary sketch comedy troupe The State. Here's another great story by Ryan (his story is the last one) at a Risk storytelling night. This one is about the Rapture and losing his mom to kidney disease. One of those two things is the end of the world for a kid raised Pentecostal. You have to listen to find out which one: http://risk-show.com/2010/05/episode-116-the-end/

These aren't sacred undergarments, they're Spanx! Really

My husband in his sacred undergarments on the set of Law & Order: SVU.
(Just kidding: that's an old undershirt!)

There are these people in my building who I am convinced don't like us because they think we are Mormon.

This would sound totally absurd to anyone who knows me, but if you are a white lady pushing a stroller down the street in our corner of a not-very-diverse NYC neighborhood made up mostly of Dominicans, chances are you're a Latter Day Saint. Oh, and my kid is blond. Damn, are we Mormon?

Anyway, it really gets me because these people who don't like us seem cool and smart and totally like people we would usually get along with. It's not like they're rude, but when I say hi to this woman, she says hi back and then always looks just a little disgusted with herself.

But short of inviting this couple to a coffee-fueled orgy at our place I can't really think of a good way to convince them otherwise. Also, I never see them in the laundry room, which is too bad because then they would see that I'm NOT washing load after load of temple garments. (Also of interest: apparently attending temple is a little like a P. Diddy party; everyone wears white on white! It's a little creepy though. The online stores that sell Mormon temple duds have names like White Elegance and Dressed in White. But just try to find some Mormon undergarments online. I've been searching for 20 minutes and I can't find any)

Anyway, I told my husband that I thought these hip neighbors didn't like us because they think we're Mormons, and he said: "No way, we're not good-looking enough." And he's right! We walk by their church on Sunday morning on the way to brunch or the playground or whatever, and it looks like a casting call for The Bachelor. Everyone going into that place is at least a 7. In fact, my husband said, he would be super flattered if someone thought he was a Mormon. It would be a compliment, he reasoned, because they're so hot (and not in the literal my-sacred-undergarments-are-giving-me-hot-flashes kind of way).

AND THEN: Last week a friend of a friend mistook my husband for a Mormon. The reasons being geography (our apartment's proximity to the church), whiteness and the fact my husband refers to himself as an "elder." OK, joking about that last one.

My husband was pretty horrified, having grown up in an equally evangelical church where speaking in tongues was totally the norm but the Mormon church was seen as a cult. What can I say? He's from the midwest. I'm Canadian. We're wholesome looking. Oh, and I love to sew and shit, and I blog about it, which apparently Mormon housewives do too, as explained in this Salon.com column on one feminist's obsession with crafty Mormon moms' design blogs. (Thanks to my friend Danielle for pointing that out).

OK, to recap: blond kid, a husband who wears white undershirts every day (see photo), and I wish my blog were as cute and popular as the Mormon moms' blogs. We may as well convert. And the first people I am inviting to our sneaky Sunday post-church meet-and-greet are the artists upstairs.

Marriage and Taking Direction

No matter how much your husband loves you and says things like, "I'm so lucky you married me. You're amazing and beautiful, and so smart and such a great mother," he still won't believe you when you tell him things like, "You shouldn't wash blueberries and then put the back in the fridge wet. They'll go bad."

We had this fight arugument last night. When I told him not to wash the entire pint of berries — instead just the ones he was about to feed our toddler who ate only constipating foods all day, he sneered: "That sounds like an Old Wives Tale," by which I believe he meant "something women made up solely to create more work for men." 

"I'm an old wife," I said. "Does that make everything I say bullshit?"

"I just want to know where you heard this," he said, all fake wide-eyed. "Is there any proof?"

Now this is a man who once made Annie's Mac & Cheese with banana yogurt because he was out of milk. And he's asking me to provide scientific evidence on the proper handling and storage of berries? He's the guy who can't, no matter how many times I explain it, remember the difference between salted and unsalted butter and which one should go in the butter dish (hint: one is salted) , and he's requires a citation beyond my "everybody knows that you shouldn't wash berries until you plan on eating them."

I make dinner for our family almost every night, and my husband is always wholeheartedly appreciative of this fact. His amazement at what I can do with a few vegetables, a legume and a grain is seemingly sincere. In fact, I don't think I have ever made a meal he didn't enjoy. But still he doubts me when I say, "Don't wash all those damn berries; they're going to go bad, dummy."

Why? Because husbands, even actors, can't take direction. See this face:

 That's the face of a man taking direction from his wife. We have the same fight argument every time I need him to take a photo of me in something I made for this blog. We are not blessed with good lighting in our New York apartment, and so indoor photo shoots require using what's available and then fussing with the camera settings until you get something half-way useable. My husband knows next to nothing about taking photos, but acts like I'm the intern and he's Annie Liebowitz when I suggest he, maybe, uh, actually looks at the photos he's taking to make sure the lighting is OK. Let's see that face again:

In these two shots, I'm making him pose where I will be standing so I can check light levels and adjust the settings, and show him the angle I am hoping to achieve. (The angle that makes me look skinniest, duh). I didn't, however, tell him to stand with his hands on his hips like that. That's just the way he stands.

Resolutions for 2011

 

Last year, my only resolution was to save receipts. I put a post-it on the front door and another in the fridge and it worked. I saved all the receipts for anything I purchased and was never left in the unenviable situation of needing to return something but unable to because I threw away the bill. Also, I feel prepared for tax time, having kept mental note (and physical record) of everything our family purchased that could be written off. 

Anyway, with that success in mind, I have a few more resolutions this time around. 

-find some way to exercise that I don't hate/doesn't cost a fortune. (Ideas?)

-go to bed earlier 

-not let New York get to me so much

-expand my Etsy shop

-figure out some way to get health insurance 

-become a better sewer/work on taking my time and not being so impatient to finish a project that I rush the details 

 

I did this, so you don't have to

 

I'm pretty sure my mom has zero recollection of what it's like to have a small child. Or maybe she simply blocked out all the less-than-happy memories about what life can be like day-to-day with a toddler. How else to explain why we have so many conversations like this:

Me:  Yeah, so we took the train upstate to visit some friends this weekend. 

Mom: Oh! How long is the ride?

Me: About two hours.
Mom: That must have been fun!

Me: Uh, the first five minutes, yeah....you're kidding, right?
Mom: Kidding? Why?

Me: Have you ever met a two-year-old who likes to sit in one spot for two hours?

Mom: But she must have had fun looking out the window.

Me: Maybe if Elmo was running alongside the train juggling hotdogs. So: no. Not really. 

Anyway, there are a lot of things in New York City that sound super fun, but aren't really when you have to drag a toddler along. Seeing Santa at Macy's is high on that list. (I tried explaining to my mom just how brutally long the line is, and how excruciating it is to stand behind some obnoxious, bronzed four-kid family from New Jersey. Seriously, is Santaland worth crossing state lines?). 

Still, we braved the midtown Manhattan crowds yesterday because Ryan had the morning off and I really wanted to see the holiday window displays. Admittedly, morning is not the best time to see Christmas lights and windows (plus the glare gets in the way of a good photo), but we live an hour from midtown and the prospect of going there post-work-rush-hour-dinner-hour was just too much for me.

The best holiday windows are found at Macy's, Saks, Lord & Taylor, Barney's, Bergdorf Goodman and Bloomingdales. (Here's a map for anyone who cares.) We were only able to see Macy's (we had to go there to buy shoes for the kiddo), Saks and Lord & Taylor. The three Bs (Bergdorf, Barney's and Bloomies) are all about 20 blocks uptown from the others so we couldn't fit them in this visit. But you can go to Gothamist for more photos (all better than mine because they were taken at night). And WNYC has a nice breakdown on the windows plus a walking tour planned out.

My favourite in the three we saw was Saks, whose windows featured one-of-a-kind designs by Alexander McQueen, Calvin Klein, Jason Wu, Kaufman Franco, Marc Jacobs, Marchesa, Nina Ricci, Oscar de la Renta, Proenza Schouler, and Sophie Theallet. Lucy called the little girl featured in each diorama "Goldilocks," though she may be more of a sci-fi Little Red Riding Hood. Here she is catching mechanized butterflies:

 

Riding on a robot elephant:

Driving her futuristic bubble car:

And hitching a ride on a mechanized octopus:

Down Fifth Ave. is Lord & Taylor, another fancy-person's department store that I have never once set foot in because I couldn't afford to buy a luggage tag there. The store polled its customers for their favourite holiday memories and used them to create sentimental dollhouse scenes from various eras, like the following:

 

Now it doesn't take a demographer to figure out how diverse Lord & Taylor's clientele probably is: rich, very rich and stupidly rich. Oh, and totally white apparently because this little guy (who appears ready to climb up the fire escape) was the only person of colour in the store's 12 different vignettes:

 

Macy's throws up the same windows every year — a series of tableaux from the Miracle on 34th Street. It's much more kid-friendly than the artsier windows uptown, but the glare was really bad and in every photo I took you can see Footlocker and T-Mobile across the street better than you can see the Santa scenes: