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?

Making a Mess of Mood With My Fave Sewing Bloggers!

You know how on Project Runway they give the designers a half-hour to choose their fabrics at Mood in NYC's Garment District? 

Well yesterday it took four sewing bloggers four times that long to pick out a single print. (But, I believe, we had 10 times as much fun doing it). Witness:

In the end the consensus was on two prints, to be used together. I'm not revealing here what they were — this was not my challenge after all. Oonabaloona dared Gingermakes (both Mood Sewing Network bloggers, so they have the luxury of shopping monthly at this incredible, three-floor fabric store. Jealous much? Yeah, me too) to let her choose the fabric for her next project. If you know Oona's work, then you know she's a print-mixing Sewasaurus Rex. Put her in charge of your next project and you could just end up in this (please don't adjust your computer monitors):

We made quite a mess, and in the end I don't think Gingermakes was too apprehensive about the challenge. I can't wait to see what she does.

Nettie of Sown Brooklyn was also on hand to offer her honest critique of Oona's sometimes-very-out-there choices. It could have easily ended up too-many-cooks-in-the-kitchen, but civility reigned:

Peter of Male Pattern Boldness popped by to direct me to the lovely blue cotton flannel he used to make Michael a shirt a while back (I've been wanting to buy some ever since — for a shirt for Ryan). He ran away at some point because he prefers doing his fabric shopping in dives. But lucky for us, he made some time later for Color Me Beautiful consultations over lunch:

Meanwhile at home, my daughter was apparently playing "going fabric shopping and then sewing a dress to wear to a wedding" with her dad. Here's the garment she made, sent to me via BlackBerry (very avant garde, non?):

It was a wonderful day, and I came home with a bag full of goodies: the blue plaid cotton flannel and pearly snaps for Ryan's shirt; a bird-print cream and grayish-purple silk chiffon for a top for me (I already bought Pattern Runway's Pussy Bow Blouse pattern to use with it), and all the cheap poly satin, tulle and trimming I need to make my daughter a Cinderella dress.

(I should note when I showed it to her, she sighed deeply and said, "Well, I guess it's OK if you make me a Cinderella dress." WTF, my dear daughter? Apparently she's into the arrow-slinging Merida — from the Disney movie "Brave" — now. When will I ever learn?)

Hope you're all having an amazing weekend too!

Woe is Me: UFO Coming In For A Landing

In sewing, as in life, there's nothing I hate more than backtracking. (I'd rather get off the bus one stop early to avoid overshooting a destination, and if you ask me to repeat myself, I think hard about whether what I said was in fact worth saying twice before complying).

And unpicking stitches is enough to make me abandon a project all together.

With that, I have to say: Really, Burda? REALLY?

Botched Burda 141 Top For Girls

Alright, the blame should really be on me. 

And the thought of unpicking an entire project is not enough to elicit a little sympathy this rainy Wednesday, take a look at my kitchen. I have less counter space now than I did at age 20 when I lived in a camper trailer:

Please note: no dishwasher

Pity party over. Check out the LBD I've been sewing from McCall's 6319. No mistakes, no backtracking (too bad I had to use a flash for the pics though; it's dark in NYC today!)

I used the black ponte knit that Gingermakes so generously gave to me. I love it. Sometimes something easy to sew is just as easy to wear. I'm still deciding on a hemline. I keep trying it on with different shoes, which each demand a different length. With heels: longer. Flats: short, obviously, am I right?

love the zip!

How about you people? Screwed anything up lately? Feeling down in the dumps thanks to mid-winter weather and incomplete pattern instructions?

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).

Daphne Guinness Exhibit at FIT

 If you've grown tired of Occupying Wall Street, head over to the museum at New York's Fashion Institute of Technology so you can see how the 1% lives. 

That's the way I felt after visiting the Daphne Guinness exhibit, which is the museum's first to chronicle a single person's style. If you don't know who Guinness is, she's very rich, very beautiful and is a collector of haute couture. She's heir to the beer family's fortune and something of a muse to many of the biggest names in fashion, including the late Alexander McQueen. Indeed, there are dozens of stunning pieces by McQueen in the FIT exhibit, so if you missed "Savage Beauty" at the Met, this is the next best thing (and it's FREE!). Other notable designers heavily represented in the collection: Nina Ricci, Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Lacroix, and Valentino.

The clothes are truly amazing. The video presentations on Guinness.... less so. In one, about her fragrance, she really seemed to be phoning it in. On creating her scent, roughly paraphrased: "It's in my mind. I don't really think about it too much...." Come again?

Throughout the exhibit are quotes from Guinness explaining her style, including her love of armour. Again, roughly paraphrased, though her wording was no more eloquent than this: "I love armour. It's beautiful to wear metal — and it has protective qualities." Deep. 
 

As remarkable as it was, gazing into the closet of a billionaire reminded me a little of an ex-boyfriend of mine. He was so proud of his music collection — to the point that one could wonder whether he actually thought he had a hand in creating his most treasured albums. But collecting is not the same thing as creating.  Is good taste a talent unto itself? Should we be at all surprised that one of the richest women in the world is a trendsetter in fashion? (Of course, I realize having this collection on view is a gift for the fashion students at FIT. Seeing such garments up close is so much more instructive than seeing them in a magazine or a book. There were many stunning examples of design. My favourite was this Chanel dress with copper-sequined yoke and epaulets:)

I didn't go to this exhibit expecting to feel any animosity toward the woman whose clothes I wanted to see. Indeed I felt nothing of this sort after seeing Savage Beauty, the Met's exhibition on McQueen. The clothes themselves are truly captivating. But I guess I had hoped for more from someone who is known for daring style and support of up-and-coming young designers than "I like shiny things" (a direct quote from Guinness. Also, my three-year-old says this occasionally).

Am I being too hard on Daphne Guinness?  I know since moving to New York City I've had issues with class politics (the Sunday Times' Style Section, for one, never fails to fuel my class rage). As the recession drags on, and so many people I know are just hoping to make it through the winter without having to buy new boots, to parade around in such ridiculously impractical outfits — or laud someone as an artist for doing so — it's a little unseemly. That's not to say art or fashion should take the backseat during economic hard times (beautiful things make us happier, more hopeful, right?), but the emperor has new shoes, and they're impossible to walk in.

Muppets, Paul Rudd, John Hunstman...LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!

Me with my SNL wristband, post-show!

Last night my husband and I went to a dress rehearsal for Saturday Night Live, and it was the best night out I've had in years. There were Muppets, Jason Segal and a surprise appearance by Paul Rudd....I'm still coming down off the high of it. I've been to some other TV show tapings before, but Saturday Night Live trumps them all. That must be why tickets are so hard to come by (you have to enter the lottery in August, and then if you're chosen you get an email telling you the date for which you were awarded tickets. This process makes it mighty hard for out-of-towners to see the show  — unless you are willing to line up for hours for stand-by tickets, which are really hard to get. So the crowd at SNL is very New York, and not full of tourists like, say, Letterman.)

A dress rehearsal sounds 2nd-best to the live taping, but there is one big benefit: you get to see an extra half-hour of material that they end up cutting from the live show. (Of course that half-hour is composed of the sketches deemed too clunky for TV, but it's still fun to see how it's made). It's also interesting to come home and watch the live show to see what got cut, how jokes were tweaked, and whether the host wore his bow tie on air (he didn't).

The dress rehearsal starts at 8 p.m., and they run it exactly as if it's the live show: set changes happen swiftly in the time it takes for a few commercials. It's amazing to see how the dozens of crew members work together to build sets and then strike them in seconds, and cast members run off dressed as one character and come back after commercial as another.

Like with all live tapings, there's a great deal of waiting involved: first to get your precious tickets, then to go through security, then to take the elevator up to the ninth floor at 30 Rock, then to get into the studio...

I wish I had taken some sneaky photos, but they are no joke at NBC about shutting of your phones. Ryan actually took his battery out because his Blackberry malfunctions and he didn't want it to come to life and get us ejected from the best night of 2011.

Every moment of the show is super fun, even the "turn off your phones, there are the fire exits.." announcements, delivered by cast member Jason Sudeikis, one of my favourites. The band keeps the energy up during set changes and commercial breaks. I wish I could remember what song it was that Keenan Thompson sang to warm up the crowd (with the female cast members, excepting Kristen Viig, who was in the cold open sketch, as back-up singers). Mmmm, something Motown? He's really good (which we already know from "What's Up With That?")

Jason Segal was the host, and since he's currently promoting the new Muppets movie, we knew Kermit and the gang would be there. And even though we watched the stage be set for the monologue, and could see the puppeteers huddled around the back end of the the piano where Segal was to perform, it was still so delightful to see them pop out. It was one of my favourite parts of the show.  My other favourite sketches were the Casting-Regis'-Replacement sketch and Andre the Giant Orders and Icecream sketch, which was funny even before it began.

There's something truly enjoyable about watching a cast member lose their shit and laugh during a scene. Fred Armison, who has been on the show for nearly a decade, rarely does this. Which made it extra funny when he couldn't stop laughing during the Vogelchek sketch (otherwise known as the "family that makes out with each other"). Seconds later Paul Rudd and Jason Segal wildly made out — also so much more fun to see live.

While we were waiting in line Ryan saw Jon Huntsman (the other Mormon who wants to be the Republican candidate for president of the U.S.) walk by with a few of his staff members and security, apparently on his way up to the studios at NBC. Ryan guessed he was going to appear on SNL, but I scoffed: "Nobody knows who that guy is!" I said. It's too early in the campaign for SNL to start featuring politicos, and anyway, he's probably being interviewed on the nightly news, I thought. It's was 6 p.m.

To his credit, he didn't say "I told you so," but I think that was the high point of the night for Ryan, when the stagehand pushed Jon Huntsman out from the wings in a rolling office chair for his segment on Weekend Update. 

I feel so lucky that we got to see the show and I totally recommend seeing a taping if you can. But it's not so easy: to enter the lottery for tickets to a taping, you must email snltickets@nbcuni.com in the month of AUGUST ONLY. All you do is provide your contact info. You're not allowed to request a specific date or taping. Or if you've got time on your hands, you can line up for stand-by tickets the day of the show. They hand them out at 7 a.m. (a lady in the line-up told me she queued up twice — beginning at 2 a.m. — and didn't get tickets, so the lottery is the sensible alternative, really).

Buttons, baby — and LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!

I'm sewing buttonholes this morning and contemplating my good fortune: I got tickets to Saturday Night Live! The tickets are notoriously hard to get. You can enter the lottery for tickets during the month of August ONLY. You send in an email with all your info...and then forget about it, figuring you stand no chance. But I got an email yesterday afternoon saying I won tickets to the Nov. 19 dress rehearsal! Now, a dress rehearsal sounds less-than the live taping, but I am still super stoked. Lining up for hours on end (the other way to get tickets to a taping is to line up at 7 a.m. the day of the show: no thanks!) is no longer an option for us, and I think this will be just as fun, though I stand no chance of being seen in the background during the monologue.

Apparently the lovable Jason Segal will be hosting, and Florence and the Machine is the band. I'm presuming Segal is there to promote the Muppet Movie, so maybe Kermit and the gang will be on hand too (I'm partial to Gonzo; if he sits next to me, I just might explode).

In other good news: my husband shot a small role on One Life To Live. He also got into Miami Ad School (the New York campus). Plus did I mention I placed 2nd in Burdastyle.com's Halloween costume contest? They still haven't contacted me regarding my winnings. I trust them though....but you know, nobody's ever in a hurry to give you money, are they?

As for my Very Easy Vogue 8626 jacket, I'm in agreement with Peter, who suggested a darker button would be better with this dark blue and orange plaid. I had bought these online, hoping to avoid a trip downtown, but it looks like I'll be dragging my three-year-old out this afternoon. If I pair a trip to the garment district with a ride on the carousel at Bryant Park, perhaps she'll forgive me.

UPDATE: I thought I'd include the info on getting tickets to SNL, just in case anyone wants details. From the NBC site:


To enter the Saturday Night Live ticket lottery for the upcoming season send an email in the month of August only to snltickets@nbcuni.com
Please include all contact information and do not request a specific date. If you are selected, you will receive two tickets to a random show date and time. You may only send one email per household and all audience members must be at least 16 years of age. Please note that entering the lottery does not guarantee tickets, and you will only be notified in the event that you are chosen.

Second-hand store shopping in New York City

There are a lot of reasons to love New York City, but thrift-store shopping is not one of them. My guess is store rents are too damn high for true second-hand stores to stay in business (though there are a few Salvation Armies and, of course, high-end vintage stores — but not anywhere near my neighbourhood).

That's not to say you won't find great items. But you will pay through the nose here because even employees of Unique Thrift Store in the Bronx know the value of a Stella McCartney blazer (I saw one there, on display up high behind the counter. The price tag was $299.99. Which seems fair considering eBay's "Buy it now" price on similar blazers is around $250. But still: $299 for anything at a second-hand store is a little outrageous). We went there to find a dress shirt and tie for Lucy for a video we were making. We found a little shirt, vest and tie set for $7, which seems overpriced to me. You can probably buy the same set for $9 down the street. I miss Value Village.

Other shocking finds on our trip that day: a vintage Ralph Lauren one-piece ski suit for $69.99 (I believe a similar piece was on display at the Fashion Institute of Technology's "Sporting Life" exhibit. I'm not surprised by the price tag — but by the fact that an employee of Unique Thrift Store would put this much value in a old polyester onesie).

And the Fresh Prince of Bel Air's favourite dress shirt, for $24.99 (!!):

Seriously, we saw Old Navy shirts that probably cost more than they did originally. But this place was packed. People were buying. Maybe how much I value other people's castoffs is directly correlated to the size of my bank account, but I just can't stomach the prices of second-hand clothing in NYC. I used to love shopping second-hand, garage sales, flea markets and the like. But here, everything is priced for the expert or collector. There's no thrill in finding an overpriced vintage Ralph Lauren ski suit. The thrill comes from saying to yourself, "Don't they know what it's worth?" as you pay $6.99 for a museum artifact-worthy item.

I'd love to be proven wrong though. Know of any great second-hand stores in NYC? Tell me!

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):

Spotted in Times Square Today

 We were walking back to the subway through Times Square this afternoon after spending the morning in Bryant Park, riding the carousel and watching odd people play ping pong, when we saw this performance art. It looks like the work of Olek, a Polish street artist known for her large scale crocheted installations. Of course, we all shook hands with the crocheted person. It appears to be inspired by Yoko Ono's Grapefruit. If you also want to be bossed around by Yoko Ono, follow her Twitter feed. Like, truly follow it — like my friend Chris did.

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.

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.

Why I love freecycle (Hint: it's not the free stuff)

This is not the actual free cake

I love freecycle for two reasons:
1) to clean your closets and your conscience at the same time by handing off that which you don't need to someone who will use it, keeping those items out of the landfill for a little longer. How it works: when you have something you want to get rid of, you post it and your location so 20 people can reply that they want it, and then 19 of them don't show up when they say they will. Eventually, you get rid of that thing you no longer need.

2) to see all the weird things that New York wackjobs think others may actually spend the $2.50 on a subway ride to pick up. It's a like a little window into a world of crazy.

For example, this:

OFFER: 3/4 flourless cake (Chelsea) From: kamtress17

A partially eaten cake? You think someone is going to come to your apartment to pick up a Trader Joe's cake that's missing a couple slices? Wait, this sounds familiar....oh yes:

OFFER: 1/2 chocolate bar (Chelsea) From: kamtress17

It's the same person!! Someone should intervene because kamtress17 totally has a problem. She impulse buys junkfood and then tries to give it away after she's had her share. Don't ask freecycle to do what any good roommate could!

Also, someone should tell her there are some things you just shouldn't get from strangers. See also:

Wanted: Bris Pillow (UWS) From: stanvin22

I'm not Jewish, but I've lived in New York long enough to know you should buy your kid his own damn Bris pillow.

Moving on, I also love looking at the hopeful WANTED postings. Some requests are very reasonable:

WANTED: bridal/wedding magazines From: silygoosp

Others are kind of spooky:

WANTED: Matches/Lighters: U.E.S.

(I don't know about you, but I would feel really bad when some nine-year-old arsonist shows up at my door to collect his free matches.)

But there are a lot of people in this city who apparently believe if they just tell everyone they really want a laptop, someone will send them one. Good luck with that. See also:

WANTED: ELLIPTICAL MACHINE OR TREADMILL-11209 From: dny_bklyn

WANTED: Mini DV VIDEO CAMERA (ANYWHERE) From: Marie

WANTED: Serger From: PEACH

Wanted: Size 6 Dress Form From: PEACH

Keep dreaming. Maybe you could settle for something more realistic, like:

OFFER: Yankees Knapsack filled with older issues of ESPN magazine - S From: trooblue2u

Offer: About 40 Empty CD Cases (Upper West Side)

or 

OFFER: Script of the Cosby Show (East Village)

And finally here is my favourite. These five freebies were all posted within minutes of each other by the same person :

Offer:  Leopard Jacket in size XL/1x ( Manhattan-10018) From: smartisneverinnocent

Offer:  Books of Spirituality and New Age Philosophy ( Manhattan - 1 From: smartisneverinnocent

Offer: LIKE NEW / Thigh high black boots in ladies  7.5  ( 10018 Man From: smartisneverinnocent

Offer: 2 bottles of Hair Remover ( unopened) ( Manhattan - 10018) From: smartisneverinnocent

Offer: Cordless HP mouse in Green ( unopened box) ( Manhattan - 1001 From: smartisneverinnocent

My best guess is smartisneverinnocent was put out of business when Craigslist pulled its adult listings last year. Anyone care to hazard an explanation? Remember, the thigh-high boots are LIKE NEW and the hair remover is unopened.

I Hate New York...but I have to live here, so

One of my resolutions for the new year is to not let New York get to me. In the three years I have lived here I have unfortunately found that this city — so universally loved by everyone but me, it seems — just brings out the worst in me. An afternoon spent running simple errands makes me positively hostile and misanthropic in a way I haven't experienced since my waitressing days (and then only when dealing with the worst customers, who are few but memorable). I wish this year to become the sort of unflappable person who can shrug off all the day's tiny rudenesses.

Five days in and I am failing. And winter is my favourite season here, so I'm really going to have to work hard if I want to make living in this city work for 2011. I thought maybe one way to help would be to get it all out of my system. Spring clean my hatred for NYC by naming and accepting and then releasing each thing that makes me crazy about living here:

-The rent is too damn high. According to the Real Estate Group NY's most recent Manhattan Rental Market Report (Dec. 2010), the mean rent for a one-bedroom apartment in a non-doorman building in Manhattan is $2,794. A two-bedroom (what you would expect a small family like ours to live in) costs $3,732. Of course that number is skewed to the exorbitant because of luxury rentals downtown,  but even looking at the average for Harlem (the closest neighbourhood to ours that is included in the report) is depressing: $1,574 for a one-bedroom in a non-doorman building, and $2,035 for a two-bedroom. In addition, rental companies here usually require proof that your income is 40-50 times the monthly rent. So to rent the average one-bedroom in a non-doorman building, you would have to prove income of $111,760. Of course when we signed our lease we had to fudge the numbers, which I think everyone does. So what you have is a whole bunch of landlords saying, "See? This rent isn't unaffordable! All of my tenants make $75,000-$100,000." Meanwhile all the tenants are struggling to pay their rent, which means many people can't afford health insurance (1.3 million New Yorkers are uninsured). And you know what you get for $1,500/month? You get moldy bathrooms, creaking floorboards, roaches, and radiators that sound like evil hissing, screeching witches' cauldrons. What you don't get is a balcony or any any storage space, both features you would take for granted anywhere else. And don't tell me to move to Brooklyn. It's just as expensive there now.
-The summers are too darn hot.
-The trees are too allergenic. And it's the city's own damn fault: When Dutch Elm disease killed off street trees in the 1960s, they planted hardier varieties that also happen to be big-time pollen producers. Oh, and arborists favour male trees over female because the male trees don't drop seed pods in the spring, meaning less clean-up for city workers but an absurd overabundance of pollen in the air for the entire month of April.
-Rats. And not just on-the-subway-tracks rats, or run-right-in-front-of-you-while-you're-walking-in-the-park rats. But come-up-through-the-pipes-into-your-toilet rats. Thanks alot, Ira Glass. Now I   have to put the lid down and then compulsively check the bowl everytime before I sit.
-Roaches. Enough said.
-Bed bugs. They're everywhere: the movie theatres. Ambercrombie & Fitch. My school. Even the Empire State Building. Plus they have no respect for diplomatic immunity: they were found at the UN building.
-The black smoke that puffs out of the smokestacks on top of apartment buildings in my neighbourhood makes the city look like Dickens-era London on a cold winter day. Oh, and it gives kids asthma.
-They keep raising the cost of public transportation even as they cut service and stations are falling to pieces on people's heads.
-The supermarket aisles are so damn narrow. And they're always filled with boxes because restocking is constant. Plus, I'm beginning to suspect my stroller may be invisible.
-Banking here is like dealing with Third World bureaucracy, with ridiculous waiting periods and extortion-like fees. Plus the tellers are so dumb they're often unaware that Canada has its own currency. That is no joke.
-Everyone here is more important than you, and they will let you know it. Also: they hate your kid. And you, for having her and daring to get in anyone's way. (The NY Times' "Complaint Box" series pretty much alternates between complaining about kids and then their parents. See also: this, this and this).
-It really is that dirty. Not because the sanitation dept. doesn't do its job, but people don't seem to care a fig about their neighbourhood. I constantly see people just throw their receipts on the ground outside the grocery store. The litter in my neighbourhood is positively apocalyptic in the summertime. One year we were up early to drive to the airport the day after Dominican Republic Day, and the trash in the streets was a foot deep in places. It was, I'm sure, exactly what my mom would picture New York to look like.
-People really are that rude here. And this is the one thing about NYC I have the hardest time accepting. When I buy groceries in my neighbourhood the cashier almost never tells me what I owe. Strangers come up to you on the street and criticize how you care for your child ("She should have a hat on"... "He's crying because he wants to walk. Why don't you let him walk?" ..that was on a busy street to a friend who was carrying her nine-month-old, who was about three months shy of being able to walk on his own). When I was nine months pregnant, a lady shoved past me on the stairs so she could catch the A train about to leave the station. When I said, "Be careful!" She yelled at me: "Move faster then!" So I yell, "Do I look like I can move any faster?!" The train leaves, she on it. Me in station. Tears. I almost fell down 40 steps with a full-term baby in my belly. And she was mad at me for being in her way. Why are people here so rude? I think it's two things: 1) When you live in a huge city that allows for total anonymity, you never have to be accountable for your actions. You can treat people like shit, and it will very rarely come back to you — unlike if you lived in a small town or even a small city, where if you shoved a pregnant lady out of the way to get to the train, it's possible your mom would hear about it, and then you would get shit from her. 2) People here are not happy. You don't come to New York to be happy. You come here to make it. For money, fame, success, or to at least live in close proximity to those three things. And then once you've made it, you leave to be happy elsewhere. You know how on reality TV shows there's always someone saying, "I'm not here to make friends. I came to win!" That's New York: 8 million people who didn't come here to make friends all trying to win.

So I have to learn to accept all these things for the time being. Shrug it off when someone cuts in front of me at Duane Reade. Order my groceries online. Leave town for the month of April when my allergies become unbearable. And be happy I don't speak Spanish when the next abuela scolds me for not forcing my kid to wear her mittens (How do you say, "Believe me,  I've tried" in Spanish?).

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: