Smokey the Magnificent

Yesterday I fell prey to one of my periodic desires to become a better person - and by “better”, I mean “skinnier and more productive”. So Helpdesk Man and I are trying a grain-free week in order to curb sugar cravings, and I have vowed to perform no frivolous Internet surfing and to wade through my impressively long to-do list. Which includes making a fairy dress and its accompanying corset before Saturday (assuming my steel boning arrives in time), finishing the Christmas shopping and getting up-to-date with various freelancey bits and pieces. Also sourcing a turkey. And finishing a dress for the snortlepig. And cooking for Saturday’s picnic. Things like that.

I went this morning to our church’s Christmas display, at which two of my small sisters were performing as part of a handbell-ringing group. It was quite an experiemce - not because of the bell-ringing itself, but because of the conductor, who kept up a cheerful patter between songs about how the bell-ringers were rubbish. It was quite astounding. She helpfully pointed out every mistake upon the completion of each song, informed us which of the ringers suffered from blood pressure problems, told us all about the woman (second from the right) who had been so bad initially she had tried to quit, and generally did her utmost to nudge the troupe towards suicide. Amazingly, they seemed to bear her no ill-will.

Would you rather be given free food for the rest of your life, or free holidays?

I am secretly judgmental of denim in colours other than blue.

Despite having a degree in film I have never seen The Godfather, Cool Hand Luke, Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now, Annie or Psycho. And I didn’t like Citizen Kane.

A small and unworthy part of me would be more excited about the prospect of a trip to Disneyland than a trip to England.

I still can’t use boolean operators.

I have the intermittent desire to start up a rock band called Deviated Septum.

I have never had a decent massage. I am not sure if this is due to a structural defect inherent in myself, as I bruise very easily and have a wonky back, or simply because I have never shelled out for a professional one. I am curious to try it, but I suspect it would be overrated and I know it would be expensive. The kind with the hot rocks strikes me as interesting though.

I have never roasted pork.

I bit one of my sisters one time. She knows who she is. The one with the deckle-edging. This was a long time ago, though; I have not, and I stress this, done it recently. I bite the pig sometimes though, but not maliciously; just ’cause she’s squishy.

I made a woman in the supermarket feel guilty the other day. She was standing around in a Maggi T-shirt, and I beamed vaguely and said “Hi” as I went past, whereupon she was all “Ooh” and dug around her in her bag and was all “You want a voucher? It’s 50 cents off any Maggi sauce.” And in a friendly way I said “Ah, thanks, but no, I boycott Maggi because they’re owned by Nestle”. And her eyes went wide and she was all “Oh I know, I used to work for Greenpeace!”, to which I was like “Er, k” and she started stammering and saying “I’m only doing this this weekend, it’s not my usual job!” I did my best to assure her with a smile that I bore her no personal ill-will and understood that One Does What One Must in these difficult times and all, but she was clearly panicked that I would think she was a soulless shill. My smile isn’t as reassuring as it should be. I feel kinda bad about it: she probably went home and donated her week’s wages to the bilby in a fit of eco-ethical guilt.

Two roaches last night. Two. And I only found the second because finding the first made me skitchy, so I went on a roach-hunting mish around the house. I was just saying to myself “Silly Smokey, lightning doesn’t strike twice, surely finding the first roach guarantees us immunity for the rest of the night” when I saw the second, snivelling its weedy way over the door. I think I will move to Antarctica. They don’t have roaches there… right? What if they did? That would be awful. I’d have to make friends with them to combat seasonal depression and loneliness, and then just as I’d grown fond of their roachy ways my pet penguin would eat them and I’d throw myself off a crevasse. You know what’d make a good opera, though? A morality tale about a girl who bought from a wizened old woman a roachometer, which told her how many roaches there were in her house at any time, but not precisely where; and how instead of giving her peace of mind, it ended with her scrabbling frantically through the cupboards each night hunting for the elusive beasties, until she… I dunno. It’s an opera. Stabbed herself, probably. Sondheim, praps? I’d watch it.

Helpdesk Man and I went Christmas shopping last night. It was surprisingly unbusy in town and moderately enjoyable, except that a creepy girl in Whitcoull’s sidled up to me as I was perusing the Twilight parody and started talking smack about Twilight fans. Not that I have anything against that per se, but how did she know I wasn’t one? I could’ve been going to buy a whole boxed set for all she knew. Either she just recognised my innate classiness (you know, by the fact that I was sniggering in the aisle over a Twilight parody), or she did not care how well she represented the store. Which is like… treason. I’m shocked.

I’d like to end this post with a shoutout to Scully, an admirable if fictional woman I admire greatly. Scully, even when tied spreadeagled to a bed with a parasitic organism believed by a cult to be the second coming of Christ inserted into your spine, you refuse to accept the role of victim, keep your wits about you and scream only when it is strategically sensible to do so. And later, when you insist on having the thing cut out from your neck without anaesthesia, I can only salute you in awe. You also look good in boxy jackets, although part of me missing the shapeless trench coats you used to wear; and even though I know it was largely to disguise your Season One pregnancy, I preferred to think of it as sticking it to the man in some ill-defined anti-fashion-industry sense. Your maternal instincts are present without being gushy; your hair, though helmety, is nevertheless healthy-looking and not over-processed; and although your metaphysics leave something to be desired, you have a stunning draw and an impeccable aim.

It shouldn’t have taken you that many seasons to accept that aliens are real, though. Come on.

So I made a punk dress (pics still pending). All would have been well - but as is my luck, I got inspired and wanted to make more dresses. And I had just been invited by my dear friend April to a picnic which would involve a few fairy-obsessed friends. So I thought, why not? A fairy-inspired nursing dress. Transgressive.

So I started filling numerous bits of paper with anatomically wonky drawings of myself wearing a fairy outfit - sans head, of course, but I like to think I got a lot of personality into the shoulders. (Side note: it is surprisingly difficult to fairfyfy linebacker shoulders. I googled “how to minimise wide shoulders” and got about seven conflicting articles supplemented by yet more conflicting commemts sections, mostly involving wide-shouldered women who strenuously disagreed with the articles’ authors that spaghetti straps/halter neck tops/cap sleeves/dolman sleeves/raglan sleeves/boatnecks were good/evil, and anyway look at Jessica Biel. Which, yup. She does. Katee Sackhoff too, although it could just be the fatigues.)

Then I came to the reluctant conclusion that the dress simply wouldn’t look right without a corset. So off to Craftster to read a 100-page thread (really) about corsetry. Then a complex process of drafting involving gladwrap, duct tape and cornflour (don’t ask), and finally a mercifully clear tutorial on teh intarwebs. Intarwebs, how I loves you.

Then, as I looked remorsefully at a bodged-up half mockup from the duct tape incident, made from an old leg of denim overalls, it occurred to me that a denim corset might be a Good Thing to make before attempting the fairy version, being casualer and more sturdy and able to be artily ripped and covered with zips and paint splashes and bits of dead possum and such if the worst came to the worst.

So then I was making two corsets and a fairy dress. Only then I remembered this corset dress online, which I have desired very much for many months, but which is $450 US and you’ve gotta be kidding. So I thought, why not extend the lines of the denim corset  pattern and make a corset dress? Why not, indeed. So then I was making a corset, a fairy dress and a corset dress.

I then ran into a snag, because I had already spent all my allocated fabric money on bits of gossamer and moonshine for the fairy biz. Before I’d finalised the pattern. Because I’m daring. So I coaxed some more money out of the trembling fists of Helpdesk Man and sallied forth today to buy Stuffs and Fixins.

Unfortunately, none of our sizeable town’s fabric and craft shops stock spring and flat steel boning, which according to all reputable corsetieres is the only thing that will do. Plastic? Polypropelyne? Riligene? We pff at it. Dave’s Emporium, enterprisingly, went so far as to inform me they had it before I trekked in and was triumphantly told they did not. I pff at Dave’s Emporium, also.

Sadlier still, nobody had non-stretch medium-to-heavy-weight denim either. Or duck. Or cotton canvas. Or twill. Or small brass eyelets. The world is conspiring to keep my squish uncompressed. (Yes, Spotlight probably has it, but I can’t get there on the bus. Well, I probably could, but it would take two buses and three hours and probably damage my calm. Bussing with the snortlepig on a hot day is not for the faint of heart; neither, for that matter, is browsing in fabric stores.)  I visited one craft store, one fabric store, one sewing store, one tailor’s and one bridal shop, and ended up only with a small packet of silver eyelets and some thread. Pfft.

So I am currently in that tantalising and frustrating condition of itching to begin a project, but lacking the raw materials. It saddens me greatly. I just finished putting on a bit pot of chicken soup, despite the sweltering heat, as a hysterical displacement activity. I shall next start hunting out an online source for flat and spring steel boning, and after that the evening stretches before me as a vast, dark, corsetless void. I could keep tweaking the design for the fairy dress, but it’s at the stage of simply frustrating me and causing me to ponder overmuch on the unshapeliness of my legs. I’ll probably end up cleaning the house… heaven help me.

My lack of blogging for the last few days is largely due to an unexpected sewing kick. I accidentally got inspired perusing Craftster and decided to make a skirt out of a remnant of pin-striped fabric I got cheap from the Fabric Barn. Once I hauled the fabric out to look at it I realised there wasn’t enough for a really froofy skirt, so I amended the plan to a top, which then morphed into a tunic and finally a dress, albeit non-froofy. I have about three square inches of fabric left over - none too shabby. As for the dress, I will post pictures of it as soon as Helpdesk Man takes them. I am quite ridiculously pleased with it, having never constructed a wearable garment for myself before, much less drafted my own pattern. And other than an obnoxious thirteen-year-old from church, who informed my small sister quite clearly that she did not like it, opinions are favourable. (So HAH, obnoxious thirteen-year-old from church. So’s your face!)

Anyway, giddy with the high of successful garment construction I have spent the past several days sketching various nursing-friendly dresses on bits of paper. Today I am going to Spotlight with Mama to buy fabric for (budget permitting) several of them, including a double-layered fairy-inspired garden party dress incorporating hippie/bohemian and Victorian crazy quilt elements, and a sailor-style Victorian child-slash-swing-type dress. Apparently I can no more stick to a genre than Joss Whedon - speaking of which, did you hear Dollhouse was cancelled? Not that we’re surprised.

Anyway. here’s a question for you. For a million dollars, would you keep a dead donkey in your backyard for a year? The rules are: it’s freshly dead to begin with, and you can’t conceal it by planting a hedge of hibiscus or flinging compost on it or erecting a tiny picket fence. It just has to lie there… chillin’. Helpdesk Man said he totally would, and sounded so enthusiastic I haggled, and beat him down to about 50,000 before he called me a sicko and refused to discuss it any further. He is weak in the fibre.

Or “Off Which I Cannot Pull”, if you prefer.

• Catching car keys. Usually I flail and miss, and on the rare occasion I do manage to catch them I stare at them blankly in my hand for a minute, giggle and say “Cor”, thus eliminating any possibility of sprezzatura.
• Ebonics.
• Calling people “honey”.
• Saying “I love you” without using a silly voice. (Stunted childhood, prolly.)
• Wearing makeup of any kind.
• Giving people other than Helpdesk Man and the snortlepig hugs of greeting or farewell. Most people I know are undemonstrative or possibly think I pong, so on the rare occasion an acquaintance swoops in and kisses the air around my cheeks I tend to go into fight-or-flight mode and end up squishing them, getting their hair up my nose or doing something otherwise non-apropos.
• Bohemian/grunge/thrift store chic dressing. I’d love to be able to don a cheese hat, a vest, three pairs of holey tights, a tulle petticoat and combat boots and saunter down the street wearing earrings made out of soft drink tabs and toting a hatbox, but I’d just end up sidling close to the shopfronts, picking at my hair and hoping nobody saw me. Which is a sad thing.
• Dressing appropriately for weddings.
• Looking earth-goddessy, glowing and full of verdant feminine power during  pregnancy.
• Babywearing.
• Matching shoes, handbags etc to my outfit.
• Scarves, either chunky or floaty.
• Berets.
• High heels.
• Clothes in general, in fact; but also, unfortunately:
• Nudism.
• Casually acknowledging celebrities in a way that indicates classy recognition and a quiet, non-intrusive tribute to their talents without outing self as a ravening fangirl or causing said celebrity to inwardly wince. Fortunately, being New Zealand, this isn’t an issue that comes up too often.
• Karaoke.
• Easy-going friendliness towards other people’s small children.
• Buzzcuts, I’m pretty sure. It’s one of the main reasons I did not star in V for Vendetta.
• Saying no gracefully to telemarketers, door-to-door evangelists, collectors for dubious charities and those people at the mall who squirt Dead Sea minerals on your hands unless you studiously blank them.
• Closing in Prayer.
• Weeping subtly and attractively during sad movies.
• Dealing with crocuses in an efficient and capable manner when there are people younger and nervier than myself present.
• Presenting my ID without trying to distract the IDer’s attention from the identity photo.
• Doing any form of banking without preemptively apologising to the teller for my incompetence.
• Watching Star Wars without beaming in a slightly defective way whenever Han  Solo is about to say something witty.