my other hair is a mercedes

In another life I was an entertainment writer. My pearls of wisdom could be found on the Internet and in a couple of local newspapers, here and there. In that incarnation, I did a passel of movie reviews. I will admit now, for the first time, that I was assigned one or two films too heinous for all but the most hardcore and drunken cinephiles and that because I fit into neither category, I reviewed those movies without the benefit of actually seeing them.

What, do you really think Ebert and Roeper watch all the dreck they give thumbs up? Bah.

But if I'd been called upon to review Dreamgirls, I would've jumped at the chance to watch it. And now that I have, I can say I would've been glad that I did, versus wishing I could've saved two precious hours of my life by making shit up.

All kinds of meaningful (says me) commentary and penetrating (also says me) observations about race, colorism, class, gender, and culture run through my mind when I think about the film. Foremost, I realize that the portrayal of Black folks in American cinema has come a long way. It's terrifically consequential to have popcorn fare like Dreamgirls and a weightier existential concern like The Pursuit of Happyness playing at the same time. But, it's still easy to fit the characters in Dreamgirls into the stereotypes film historian Donald Bogle proffers in his book Toms, Coons, Mammies, Mulattoes, and Bucks. In fact, let's take a look at the main characters: Jimmy Early (Eddie Murphy), coon; Curtis Taylor (Jamie Foxx), buck; Deena Jones (Beyonce), mulatto; Effie White (Jennifer Hudson), mammy. Well, there we have it. If anyone disagrees, read Bogle and get back to me.

I find it best not to get lathered up over these things. Dreamgirls is, above all things, a high-hatted musical in the grand tradition. If it were a dog, it would be a big, slobbering St. Bernard, jumping on you and knocking you down, getting all in your face to get you to show emotion. It's that emphatic. And, take my word, it will get some feeling out of you. But it's neither the triumph nor the tromping of the dream girls themselves that will make you cry, it's the way they sing about it all in the film's two big musical numbers.

If we wanted to dabble in real life here, we'd take a closer look at what happened to the people these characters are based on. Diana Ross/Deena Jones ricocheted straight to the top, knobby knees and all, while Florence Ballard/Effie White sank to welfare and a gravelly grave at age 32. But we don't want to see that in a movie. We got our own troubles.

So let's talk about what we do want to see, and how Dreamgirls delivers the object of our desire with the force of 10,000 dancing Rockettes.

THE WIGS

The wigs, they rule.

Of course this isn't even a sixteenth of the tricked-out wigness featured, and not even the best. There are wigs in Dreamgirls that make the mouth water, the jaw drop. Real hair that naturally grows from scalps is so over. None of it is good enough, and I don't care if you're freakin' Cher, circa 1972. This movie hips you to the fact: you need to get yourself a wig. You only have to wear it during moments of high drama, if that makes you more comfortable, but you simply must have at least one, and that's that. How else are you going to fake your way to the top?

In his New York Times review of Dreamgirls, A. O. Scott laments that "The decades are marked by the progression of hairstyles, lapels, jewelry and dresses...." To which I say, You damn right!

I've listened to the 20th Anniversary benefit concert on CD, and didn't go to the movie expecting anything provocative or lasting. (Or even an engaging musical journey. With the exception of the anthem "And I Am Telling You," the rest of it remains stage music, inextricably weighted by the story it has to help tell.) For me it was all about aesthetics, and Dreamgirls drips with aesthetics.

Schmin, my movie buddy, hadn't thought about much of this beforehand, but agreed that the wigs were badass. He was also impressed with the acting, and with Anika Noni Rose, his official nomination in the sexy category.

Here we are on Christmas day. In anticipation of the happening head coverage to come, I'd brought a little drama of my own.

Here's a link to the LA times article on Jennifer Holliday's reaction to the film. I know the filmmakers weren't obligated to her, but still.

blue suede christmas

I've been holding off on posting because I've been in the doldrums. Several times I almost posted some serious waaa waaa waaa, but told myself to wait. Not that I minded crying here. It wouldn't have been the first time I've cried in public. I'm sure it wouldn't have been the last. The thing was, I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong, or, rather, on how to capture what it all felt like. This is a place where I like to be articulate. Even if I don't know what ails me, I need to be able to write about it with lucidity, to satisfy myself.

One day I was over at one of my favorite knitting blogs, Nik's Knits, enjoying an entry on a baby sweater she'd raced to complete in time for a shower. At one point, she described the disdain she felt upon walking into her apartment and seeing an "exploded view" of the sweater. She posted this link to illustrate what an exploded view is. I saw the picture and immediately thought, That's it, my whole life looks like that picture. Only take away the numbers that correspond to the diagram. And scramble it up some. Make it really blurry. There, you have it.

I started writing about this revelation and again a voice said Stop. So I didn't post, went on doing whatever it is I do.

The thing about shouldering on is that while you're at it, sometimes light creeps in through a side door and things start to make sense.

I think of myself as immune to the holidays. Especially now that Schmin's grown up and I don't have to run around town hunting down DuckTales, Transformers, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The Bubba and I are pretty low key. I like to send out New Year's cards and some years I get to it, some years I don't. Holidays schmolidays.

But this year doesn't look like any other year. You know how you look around and wonder how you came to where you are? It's not that you reject this place, it's that you have a piercing memory of having been some other place and what you can't figure is how that time came to be over and why it's impossible to get back to.

What I'm saying is that I miss my mother. Her death is my greatest loss. What it's like to dwell in the space she left is ineffable. This is my 8th Christmas without her and it's particularly painful because damn this has been a hard year. It's been a year that's left me feeling abandoned and bereft, low right down to nothing, only to circle me back and make me know that people care, I am never truly alone, and that Somebody is hauling me up by the armpits.

This holiday season has proved to be a microexperience of the year's emotional landscape. One day up, one day waaaaaaay down. So far outside the boundaries of PMS that there's no scapegoat. Here, two days before Christmas, I've had a soft landing in a place of gratitude because, I will grudgingly admit, that which hasn't killed me has made me stronger. (Grudgingly because do we not want, just one time, our rescue fantasy to come true? Perhaps I should make a New Year's resolution to let this go.)

I have also landed on terra firma because I make things. And it is my great good fortune to be surrounded by other people who make things. From noise (see all entries containing the word "Schmin") to music to clothes to words on a page or a website. I think many people underestimate the power of The Make. I know I did, before I got down to brass tacks and started knitting and sewing. When you make things, opportunities for uplift abound. I present my case:

Even if you've never touched a shred of yarn in your life and don't ever plan to, how could this not appeal to you? All the warmth and color and play.

These paddy cakes came to be because of my good friend Ellen, whose generosity really provided me with a lot of light this weekend. Go on her blog and see what a tremendous talent she is (bask in the whimsy of the dolls she made for holiday cards). I'd bought myself a ball winder thinking I could make do without a swift (if anyone else ever wonders if this is possible, the answer is NO) and I mentioned to Ellen that I was planning to buy one. At our SnB holiday party Thursday night, she gifted me with one of hers.

I brought it home and got to winding up yarn I don't plan to knit for years. It's obscene how much fun it is to wind yarn this way. As opposed to my old system.

Ellen's swift is cantankerous and seasoned, and I love it. When she gave it to me, I got the feeling an Elvis fan would get if The King himself were to take off his blue suede shoes and hand them over. I prefer things that have history; it humbles and thrills me to think of all the incredible art I've seen Ellen make, much of which started on this swift. Now it's my turn to dance a little bit.

Like I often say, Sometimes God She Smiles on You.

Though my mother won't come around this year to cook our holiday meal, lie around with me and Schmin and Steven, be happy about whatever Christmas present we buy for her, no matter how big or small, it will be a two Schmin Christmas. My boy and I have plans, just the two of us. We're going to see Dreamgirls -- because we're not that jaded -- rent some DVDs, and scrounge for food, probably at Ralph's.

I hope no matter where you are or where you thought you would be, you have a very merry Christmas day.

this is what happens when you're popular

First thing in the morning, you walk into the Gap sporting all your handmade goods. You feel empowered because even though you're still not safe from zigzag stitching your thumb when using your sewing machine, you truly believe that if you see something cool in the store, you can truck on home and whip it up. And how. You stroll along awhile, feeling stylish and capable. You finger the knitted accessories, flip a couple over to check the construction (call me foolhardy, but I think I've got the skills to knock off most of these babies). Before long, you notice these:

And by god, look what you happen to be wearing:

Your very own non-Gap inspired version of the jeans-to-skirt recon. Yours is of course made of a pair of Levi's you got for 9 bucks at Ross three years ago, thus earning you a net savings of 30 bucks.

But money saved isn't what's got you so excited. It's the fact that, thanks to crafting, you've finally stepped up to claim some small corner of the world as yours. At last, you've wiggled at least part way out of the door of consumerism and you can see your own creativity waving to you from a red convertible parked near the curb. It's revving the engine, ready to roll as soon as you jump the passenger door, and you feel your heart going thump thump because you know for sure that you're this close to being free. You feel the hot breath of manufactured goods on the back of your neck and you know it's coming after you, but you look up and there's the sun, and you don't even give that beast the time of day. Instead, you take one more sure step toward that curb.

And you plan your next project.

yellow is my new favorite color

I can turn down the best of parties, but I always think twice when asked out with the boys who love boys. One of the last times I danced from Saturday night until time to go to work on Monday morning was at a gay club in Atlanta, years ago.

So when Mister Stevens asked me and The Bubba to join him and his friends for boys' night at a historic place called The Victory Grill while we were in Austin, I said yes. I figured I'd at least get an earful of cheeky comments and that maybe there'd be good house music and I'd get in the mood to dance.

What I got was even better: good running commentary, some cutting of the rug, and the coup de grace -- the chance to preside over a competition between troupes of young, muscle-y, sweaty boys who lacked much in the way of either inhibition or clothing. Mercy mercy me.

Check out those tight little asses. Er, I mean, isn't yellow a nice color?

Turns out the night in question was host to a J-Setting contest. If you've never experienced this phenom, you simply must get yourself down South (I hear that's where it mostly takes place) and check it out. (If you do it before Madonna gets wind of it, you can beat her and claim you started it.)

A little history: Black colleges have drill teams that consist of sassy colored girls who come out with the band and show-out during half-time (or whenever duty calls) by dancing and strutting their stuff. The pre-eminent troupe is out of Mississippi, Jackson State University's Prancing J-Settes. They were the first, and they're widely accepted as the best. (Here's a clip of them in action and some background info.) Black gay men have taken the drill/dance squad from the football field to the dance club. They form groups and compete against each other in a series of dance moves they call "J-Setting," after the creme de la creme, the Jackson State team.

Now, don't get the impression that I knew about any of this before my night at the Victory Grill. I didn't, having only been to one Black college football game some donkey years ago and not having found it particularly appealing because no one actually watches the game but instead everyone mostly watches everyone else. Anyhow, you learn something new every day if you're lucky. And if you're really lucky that something new involves young supple nubile males dancing so close to you that you can reach out and pinch their sweet perky bottoms. And if you're blessed with the mother of all luck you're asked to serve as one of the judges of their dance contest.

I take my work very seriously.

I guess J-Setting became part of the gay community because the brothers couldn't let the sisters have all the fun and, seeing as the choreographer who helped bring the Prancing J-Settes to prominence, the late Hollis Pippins, was himself a member of the boys' club (this according to my mother-in-law, who would know, because she used to live in Jackson where word is said to really get around), it seems they have a right. Over the last five years or so, J-Setting has become the new vogueing among the Black gay male and flexible set.

Having said all this, the truth of the matter is, I don't care where it came from as long as the boys keep doing it.

I clearly want the boys in blue and yellow to c'mon to my house so I can give them candy, but the opposing team, seen in the top photo wearing black pants, white tank tops, and white Sateen gloves (which The Bubba liked so much that he nicknamed them Black Elegance), won the contest. I didn't vote for them, though I now agree they should have won as they did give a great performance -- okay, the guy below kissed me after Mister Stevens pointed me out as one of the judges and now I wish I had voted for them. But my vote went straight to those hotpants. Oh yes. You cannot have a body like these young 'uns, sheath it in sunshine nuthuggers, and not expect me to vote for you. And dancewise, my boys weren't too shabby either.

Because I'm now officially obsessed with all things J-Setting (and almost no things concerning my bread and butter, the study and teaching of grammar), me and Mister Stevens (see, I told you) would like to gift you with this footage. All but the guy in pink were members of the winning team, forever known as Black Elegance.

red velvet, finished objects, and other thanksgiving tales from austin, tx

Bad girls eat cake. Or, at least girls who fancy themselves bad 'cause they're out of town and it's a holiday and they can take a break from the goody two shoes world of sin-free eating at home. Fitting that this cake is red. Lord knows it's the devil. I'd say how good it was, but that would be bad of me.

Now, I didn't go looking for this cake. I'd done pretty well on Thanksgiving day. The Husband Known As The Bubba and I were visiting Annie, my mother-in-law (who HATES being called Annie, but she doesn't read this blog, in which almost everybody gets a cutesie sobriquet so ha ha). For the holiday, Annie and her roommate, MC, took us to eat at their friend Debra's house. Debra has a lovely home in Round Rock, a place I so far do not love (this matters because I'll be moving to Austin on the first thing smoking), and does her own home renovations. Yep. She built herself a pond in her backyard and is in the process of remodeling her master bathroom after having turned her guest bath into a temple almost too good for poo. Anyway, Debra's also handy in the kitchen (sorry to follow poo with food but the two are connected) and made a scrumptious dinner. I stayed away from dessert because I'd had two helpings of everything else.

Of course Friday meant TG leftovers, but it also meant a visit to where Mister Stevens was staying. As luck would have it, Mister Stevens had come to town to give a paper at UT Austin and to hang out with the friends who arranged for him to speak there. We were terribly excited that our visits would coincide, that he'd get to see Annie and The Bubba and I'd get to see his friends J. and Phillip for the first time since years ago in New York. I was also excited because I'd get to see his friend (and now mine) Marvin, who lives in San Francisco and came to join the fun.

Marvin is the reason I'm back on the sauce (just kidding, I'll wean myself the second I hit the runway at LAX). From scratch, no less, he made carrot cake, pies, and the red velvet cake above. He's so good that he made the cakes at home, brought them as carry-on, and frosted them in Austin. To me, that sounds like some kind of wizardry.

I was happy I'd done my part to show Marvin how wonderful he is. I'd made him this (modeled by the giving-you-some-cool Bubba):

I'd been working on it for the last couple months. In addition to my gazillion other projects, I'd pick up this one and 'round and 'round and 'round I'd go, only the interest of the stripes keeping me from drowning in a pool of Wool of the Andes stockinette. When I arrived in Austin, I still had to put the fringe on. Me no likey doing fringe. It's tedious. But for Marvin, anything. He's the only person I've ever seen literally give away the clothes on his back. The first time we met him, he was wearing the jacket The Bubba's got on. The Bubba admired it and before we parted company Marvin took it off and gave it to him. I'm not the stingiest person I know, but such generosity blew me away. For a long time, I wanted to do something to commemorate Marvin's kindness. The scarf, in the same colors as the jacket, is the result. It's not perfect -- I tried every which way I know to get truly jogless stripes, which made for some visually fascinating joins (and I don't mean that in a good way). Still, it's a pretty dashing piece of knitting, I humbly submit.

Marvin's in the middle, probably thinking, "These two freaks are smothering me."

I'm wearing another little something I completed while in Austin:

It's a pattern, "Sherry's Easy Shrug," from Unwind in Burbank. This made my third time around with this one. I made it in Lamb's Pride Bulky about a year ago. Anyone hear that? Lamb's Pride Bulky? I live in Southern California. Why no one had the decency to stop me from knitting what amounted to a radiator for the upper regions is beyond me. I even did it twice because I didn't like the length of the sleeves the first time I wore it. Knowing nothing of the benefit of picking up stitches, I ripped the whole thing and made it again. I wore that version a couple times before finally figuring out why I tended to faint from heat exhaustion every time I went near it -- B-U-L-K-Y W-O-O-L. But I couldn't stay away from the pattern. I wanted myself a bolero. A chill chaser. Some vintage-inspired shoulder chic. So I went back at it, this time with Karaoke. I knit it on size 10s, so it went pretty quickly. But, once again, I didn't dig the sleeves on the finished product. This time I picked up and knit bands that, for some reason, remind me of buttercups. That took a couple of tries because I had to bust out the DPNs and figuring out how to avoid ladders in ribbing was a merciless process. I wound up ripping and re-knitting the left band. But it's a comfortable and handy knit. I can't say how the Karaoke will wear, what with the soy content and all, but I can say that working with it was a yumfest.

Next post: Men in tiny yellow shorts and a contest which yours truly got to judge. Gotta love Austin.

Miss Jennifer Holiday, 1982 Tony Awards

Yes, Jennifer Hudson. Okay, Beyonce. But, really, Jennifer Holiday.

When the hoopla surrounding the movie Dreamgirls reaches fever pitch, let's all take a moment to remember who put the Broadway production on the map.

today's special

First, thank you guys for your comments and stories. It's so easy to feel alone and crazy in working to develop a sound relationship with food. You start to wonder, Could anyone else on this planet possibly think about cookies as much as I do? But we all have our moments, our battles, and our victories with food.

Today's Good Eat is lunch, Trader's Wine Country Chicken Salad on a whole wheat pita with greens and tomatoes. The asparagus with carmelized garlic is garnish. Just kidding. Although, I do have a few stalks left to eat. I wish there were adequate words to describe just how delightful this chicken salad is. I find chicken salad as a concept just okay. But this version, with its pecans and cranberries and canola mayo -- it doesn't sound like it goes, but you have to taste it to believe it. Naturally, anything this tasty must be consumed in small doses, it's not exactly low in calories. To compensate, dinner is vegetable soup.

By the way, I have a newfound respect for food photographers. I found it nearly impossible to get a shot of the meal that didn't look like the pita was throwing up.

On a non-food note, I'd like to acknowledge Nancy Pelosi, first female Speaker of the House. I'm feeling more than a little proud of the strides American women have made. Now all this country needs is Michelle Robinson Obama for First Lady.

mama likes candy

Oh yes she do.

When mama was a lil' bitty gal, she had this thing for a sticky sweet treat called Now and Laters -- "Eat some now, save some for later." Every school day warranted a stop at Brown's Carry Out to stock up on mama's favorite flavor -- grape. In fact, every day, regardless of school attendance, was cause for such an occasion, because mama never did do the thing about saving some for later. When it came to candy, it was all about The Now. Sometimes now was late at night and mama would pop one of those beloved little sugar squares into her mouth, burrow it between her back teeth and jaw, and suckle off to sleep. That was, of course, when she still had back teeth.

Ah, the good old days.

Some part of me hasn't fully accepted that they're over. I'm a grown-up in most aspects of my life, but there's always something lost in growing up, always something left behind, which leads to a certain amount of resistance. One way that my resistance has manifested itself is in the way that I eat.

Many years back, I went to a holistic therapist. My goal was to stop obsessing over my ex-boyfriend and, to tell the truth, I didn't even know the therapist was holistic. I went for my first visit, talked about the guy ad nauseam, and waited for her to tell me what to do. Instead, she looked at me and asked how I'd been eating. Again, this was a long time ago, before many of us had the understanding (whether we exercise it or not) of food that we have now. So when she asked about my diet, I matter-of-factly answered, "I eat pretty good. Mostly sweets, cake and stuff, pretty good." Her response was to send me off to the health food store for chromium and a consultation with the owner, who suggested I sink my teeth into The Yeast Connection, which I did. The Yeast Connection proffers a high-protein solution to controlling yeast, which is related to sugar cravings. Once you've stopped jonesing, you get to eat yourself some carbs, so it's a reasonable program. I followed it, took my chromium, learned all I could about whole and organic foods (which weren't affordably or easily come by then, unlike now when we have Organic Rice Krispies -- can you believe such madness?) and gained a wealth of knowledge about the right way to eat. I lost weight, which I didn't know I needed to do until I'd done it, gained a passel of clarity, and went about my business, sugar-free.

My therapist was happy, I was happy, and so I figured it was time to move on. Enter film school, New York City, and my lover and nemesis, Columbia Bagels.

It's a short jaunt from an everything bagel and its accompanist, cream cheese, to a donut. If you're not fastidious, you can easily pick up one when you're reaching for the other -- the cream cheese turns into a cold glass of milk; the salt, onions and seeds morph into candy sprinkles and soon you're over the edge.

My sugar-free life became my sugary life, just like it always had been.

But once you know something, it's impossible to go back to the way you were before you knew it, and as I resumed my old eating habits, I realized how terribly unsuited they were to my well-being. Still, the downhill slide lasted years, with a few trembling attempts at climbing back up thrown in for good measure.

What I didn't know then that I'm glad I know now is that my food choices had more to do with trying to return to a time when it wasn't necessary to be responsible in every little thing I did than with convenience or the hustle of life in the big city.

When I really get to feeling over-scheduled, overloaded, and kicked in the ass by life, I eat like I'm 9 years-old. Before I copied off Natalie and did the maple syrup diet a few weeks ago, my typical food day looked like this:

Breakfast (if I bothered)
- Zen Bakery cinnamon roll + cream cheese (the nutrition label nudges toward eating 1/2 the roll, but I've never been much good at that)

- a boiled egg or two

- water or orange juice (often my last water of the day)

Lunch
- Tuna salad sandwich (from the food truck that stops by my job in the mornings)
or
- Free pizza (usually the run-off from some admissions event at school)

Dinner
- Well, now here's where the trouble would really begin. I'd get home from work, usually around 2:30, and find myself obsessed with the fact that I live up the block from Ralph's. I hate Ralph's. Krogers' fancy-pants offspring. Overpriced, obnoxiously short-staffed, and a mecca of junk food. Absolutely the place to go when you're heading for a bender.

I'd skip down to Ralph's and pick up dinner. I'd maybe buy a roasted chicken and a container of potato salad to disguise my real raison d'etre: vinegar and salt potato chips and Haagen Dazs dark chocolate ice cream bars. And Hansen's Not Really Natural soda, because a girl gets thirsty after all that salt and sugar.

What would happen once I'd get my "food" home is kind of a blur, but I do have visions of myself tearing into those chips and sucking on those ice cream bars like there was no tomorrow. The chicken and potato salad were often relegated to the back of the fridge while I ate my treats for dinner.

But the Ralph's thing would only occur if I hadn't already stopped at Trader's by the time I reached home. There, I'd pick up a couple bags of their ridiculously orgasmic Hawaiian salt and vinegar or barbecue flavored kettle chips and a plank of milk chocolate with raisins and nuts. Yummers.

When I eat this stuff, I don't stop until I can see daylight through the bottom of the bag. This doesn't leave much room for veggies, I must say.

Post maple syrup diet, I've gotten what I aimed for in doing it -- fewer cravings and, more importantly, control over my emotional eating. (Though I like the diet, I'm not pointing anyone toward ten days of maple syrup and lemons. I've used other methods to get where I am now in the past and they all worked to some degree.) Today I am eating like a bona fide adult, which is good.

To keep myself on track, once a week I'll post a picture of a particularly responsible meal that I am preparing to consume. Sometimes it'll be stuff I make myself, other times, wise restaurant choices.

There won't be any pictures of Now and Laters.

I've led this post with today's Good Eat. A bit of organic hummus and some healthy goodness to go along with it. Had it for lunch. Yummers, indeed.

let no 'ween go unhallowed

I missed last year's WeHo SnB Halloween extravaganza, but I can surely bear witness to this year's festivities. Good clean fun it was. Low-key and well produced by my buddy Natalie, who really knows how to throw a soiree, it was one of those nights that make me happy to call WeHo SnB home. Those crazy crafty chicas know how to wield so much more than knitting needles and crochet hooks. Take a look:

The Moth and the Fiber Fairy square off.

My crew -- Ellen, Nat, Darcy -- and Angela Davis, er, I mean, me.























Yarn Cowgirl Abby, who whipped up this cute costume at the last minute.




















The Fiber Fairy brings Dolly Darcy to life.















See, crochet tools aren't the only things that hook. Ha ha. (Katherine, please forgive me.)














No Halloween bash would be complete without a costume contest. Here, the Winner's Circle: Kim the Fiber Queen; Frida Kahlo's niece, complete with monkey; and Sara The Moth, who took scariest costume (for obvious reasons). The prize loot featured Nat's fun felted sweater totes.















Darcy, the sassy revolutionary.

Dr. Love is in and she's makin' house calls.































I'll end this post with a pirate and candy corn because, hell, what more can we ask for Halloween?


Unless we ask for these, courtesy of Dr. Love!














For more and better pics, visit Ellen's blog, okay?

yes, I make stuff

I'm sure I'll soon be back to my usual non-crafty posts, but today I'm feeling a return to the roots of this blog is in order. I do, after all, make stuff.

I can't say I've been knitting much stuff. I went and overwhelmed myself with too many projects (last count, 15) and, once again, my fiber love waned. But it didn't really matter, because there's a new boy in town and he's lovin' me up just fine -- sewing. No, you can't do it all the time. People would surely look at me funny if I took my sewing machine to work to get in a little topstitching in between classes. For the times when I need to get my discreet stitch on, all those knitted WIPs still come in handy. For the other times, the times when I'm left in the peace of my own home, or with the comforting camaraderie of my sewing class comrades, I'm all about the machine. Especially now that I've made the wondrous skirtness you see before you.

Unless your first skirt is a total flop, there's no way to get around wearing it until the seams nearly come apart. I've had the decency not to take pictures every day I've worn the skirt (as that would number in the zillions), but here are a few more.



I won't bore with further declarations of sewing love, but I will say that I made it from Vogue 7416. It wasn't that I adored the pattern so much -- I'm still not a fan of the v-shaped waist band -- but, rather, that I was lured by the $5 pattern price. I do like the fabric a lot as any form of denim will do me swell, but, again, ten bucks for two yards didn't hurt. I didn't want to have to resort to eating cat food over a skirt that didn't come out right. Luckily, it did. Luckily, I enjoyed making it. Luckily, I love it.