Don't Be Me.

WARNING TO MY INCREDIBLY DISCERNING READERSHIP: This post has nothing to do with historical sewing, and everything to do with things that aren't historical sewing.

'Tis the season of Cosplay, and I'm up to the body part of your choice in the final stages of making two costumes. I'm in the home stretch (oh, please sewing gods, let it be so), but things got off to a rocky start. In the interest of whining about That Which Can Not Be Changed, and motivated slightly by the genuine urge to help others avoid the same mistake, I'd like to make a Costuming Public Service Announcement:

DO NOT and I repeat in all caps for fans of repetitive prose DO NOT purchase fabric that is not what you need with the intention of somehow magicking it into what you do need.

Go ahead. Laugh. I'll wait here.

Isn't this just the most sage, incredibly insightful advice ever? I know, it's common sense. Or rather, it should be common sense, but if life has taught me anything (spoiler: it hasn't), it's that sense is far from common. In this case, the lesson was annoying more than painful, but on the off-chance that there is another soul out there who is as trusting and naive as I am, I hope that my cautionary tale saves them the same frustration.

Yes, I price-shopped, and realized that I could save LITERALLY TENS OF CENTS by buying two textiles in wildly inappropriate colors, and dying it to match the material I actually wanted. Tens! And I've dyed fabric before (from a light color to a slightly darker color), plus, I dye my hair all the time! What's the big deal?? So, with a generous amount of smugness over my "thrifty" intentions, I purchased the fabric. Everything was dyed with the dregs of dye packets and bottles that I already owned. So thrifty! So frugal! It didn't quite go as expected, so then, I purchased some dye. Still thrifty! And some of it was on sale, so totally still a bit frugal!

Then, I purchased some MORE dye.

Then, I purchased some different dye.

Then, one night, I found myself sweating over my long-suffering washing machine, waiting for the optimal moment to dump my very last bottle of red dye into the drum so that it could mingle Santeria-style with some mumbled prayers and a cupful of the wrong kind of vinegar. It was well after midnight, but since the lower southeastern US is currently under a broad-spectrum weather curse (your choice: deadly floods, or triple-digit heat), my porch was only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun. In went the dye, in went the thrice-dyed "100% cotton" gauze, and for the fourth time in as many weeks, I found myself sitting on top of a running washer, contemplating my life choices.

Verdict: Not good, Threadlette. Not good at all.

In an effort to save myself the expense of paying an extra $1.60/yard for 3 yards of actually RED fabric, I spent $12 on dye. End result? Instead of red gauze, I have really really almost kind-of maybe mauve gauze that cost me the equivalent of an extra $4 per yard. Four dollars. And let's not factor in the bloody hours that I've spent on this little science project from creative hell, because that may actually sting a little.

Yes, I am somewhat pacified by the realization that it is a lot of fun to say "mauve gauze". But only somewhat.

I've learned my lesson. From now on, I'll only be dying large batches of fabric if the alternative is entirely cost-prohibitive, and/or the colors required aren't the two worst possible colors to try and dye fabric (red and black), and/or I don't have a vested interest in whatever unholy abomination emerges from my washing machine. Or maybe I'll forget all about this little lesson in three weeks. You just never really know.

Onward and upward!

1891 Speaks!

Howdy, y'all!

Not to pretend that my posts are ever the result of laser-like focus, I'd still like to warn you in advance that this particular post is especially random and off-topic.

As most of you have tried very hard to forget, I work at a bookstore in a very small town. My days are spent in awkward extremes: I answer emails and handle customer service for our thriving online business selling new books, as well as working with "vintage" (used!) and "antique" (very used!) books that are traded and donated to the store. I won't lie... it's an incredibly glamorous life. One minute, I'm trying to explain to an elderly lady in HorseShoe Bend, Idaho that her recently purchased e-Book will not be coming in the mail anytime soon. Then a little later, I'm rummaging through a rat-chewed box of dilapidated estate-sale books donated by a grunting family of non-reading locals who insist that "ain't nobody gonna read that stuff 'cause it's boring."

And, to be fair, a lot of it is boring. But! Sometimes, there are lovely, dusty old books with the scent of sweetly aging paper. And sometimes, those wonderful old books settle into your open palm like a broody bird on a nest, and fall open with something akin to a sigh. And sometimes (more often than you'd think), something secret and sacred, committed in elegant spirals of ink upon crisp paper will flutter to the floor. I love the things people tuck inside of books. It's a such a human habit! We can't help ourselves. I've found money, love notes, wedding photos, divorce decrees, car titles, ultra-sound pictures, movie tickets, playing cards, post cards, speeding tickets, hair bows, canned food labels, handkerchiefs, swizzle sticks, canceled stamps and more. My favorites, though, are old letters.

For those of you who are still with me, what follows is a transcription of a letter I found this week inside of an 1880's children's book. It features hot n' heavy talk of family flannel-drawer making (including a pair for "Budgie" the dog?). I hope you enjoy it! (And for the quitters who can't face another wall of text, see you next time!)

Home 10-12-1891

Dear Daughter-

     I am commencing thy letter with Budgie in my lap. He got hurt and feels as though he is a baby. Pa had just come home from [the] mill and he got in the hack and was on top of the sacks and slipped some way and almost fell out but hit on the wheel and cut a gash about an inch long just over the outer part of his right eye. It has bled a good deal and yet almost 2 hours since it happened is bleeding some yet. And now he has got ink all over my paper. So thee can play that is a kiss from him to thee. 
     Anna brought her books home this evening and isn't going to Brushwood any more. But will start to No. 1 I suppose and Emma wanted to stop to[o] and the other girls wanted to know if they might stop of Brushwood if Emma did. I told them they could but Emma would not stop. And so that nipped it all in the bud.
     The Academy is having a boom this fall. I believe they have seventy pupils now. The largest number they ever had during one term. I guess I will have enough cider left to make all the pickles thee can eat for one while. I have made 1 1/2 gallons of mixed pickles and nearly 3 of Margo's and am going to make pickle lilly yet.
     I got a letter from Uncle Ed the other day. He says he is very poorly and Lind has been out lately and Bruce is going to Lind's and study Telegraphy and Iona is going to school at Deming, and there was a picture of Mark in his wagon and his goats hitched to it. It looks very much like him.
     And Uncle Ed said that he would watch out for thee a place. He is Principal of a ward school and has seven teachers under him. Their baby's name is Georgie. We have pumpkins like every thing. Sallie brought up three wagon loads this afternoon and there had been about 2 loads brought up before.
     How are thy canton flannel drawers? I never thought to ask about them when thee was at home. We are in the business this week. We have made Pa two pairs today also Emma the same number. We wanted to make for Mary, Grace, Jessie and myself yet and make some for Budgie.
     If thee has money enough I guess thee had better get thee a gossamer. I intended to have got thee one during the summer, but thee knows when we went to town what a time we would have spending money. I wish thee would come home every morning and comb my hair. Then I would give thee thy breakfast in exchange. Well I have about run out of anything to say and will close for this time. We will bring Mary home sixth day. We have about a bushel of walnuts and peck of hickory nuts. Don't know whether we will get any more or not.

Bye Bye-
Mamma

WTF: Alison Edition. (Happy Halloween!)

Boo! And witchy stuff!

This past weekend, instead of going to the Civil War event I'd planned on, or seeing the long-lost friend that was in town, or really getting much of anything accomplished, I sat at home and felt crummy. But it's Halloween and by gum, I'm gonna post something. And maybe, since I relentlessly mock those poor Regency hussies so much, I should scrutinize myself for a minute. For your viewing pleasure, may I present:

Pictures of Myself that I've Found on the Internet

*Not what you're probably thinking. All from Comic Book Conventions!

For optimal humiliation, I'm including a picture stolen from somewhere on the internet of what I was supposed to look like. 

The Winsome Wasp!

A.K.A. Janet Van Dyne, The Wasp, probably lots of other stuff. I don't keep up anymore.

tansyrr.com

Just for the record, the Wasp is probably the shortest adult female character in... maybe anywhere. She's an Avenger, from the classic Marvel line-up. She's around 5 feet tall, and shrinks down to the size of... well, a wasp. Since I am huge and  inappropriate, almost nobody knew who I was. And yes, those are my underwear, and yes, it was an "intentional costuming decision." That only makes it worse, I know.

Bat-Woman!

A.K.A. Golden Age Batwoman, Bat Woman, Kathy Kane, Bruce Wayne's piece o' the week.

Wikipedia

Oh, did you come looking for condiments, Batman? Well relish THIS.

The best part of this costume was realizing my rump was too big to fit into the original bottoms the day of the convention. So I improvised, Bat-Woman style and used my gym shorts and tucked up the legs. As a side note, I've worn that wig more frequently than I've worn my current pair of running shoes. Even though this is a "classic" Batman character, nobody had ever heard of her. Consequently, ONE person knew who I was and - no joke- he was profoundly mentally retarded.

Aayla Secura!

A.K.A "that blue chick that got blasted into oblivion in Episode III because she got distracted by a freakin' BIRD." It was a bird, Aayla. A BIRD. I hope it was worth losing the Galactic Republic.

 Star Wars Wiki!

 Awww, YISSSS! This was an epic masterpiece, truly. The pants were under more pounds of pressure than the walls of a submarine and my "blue skin" kept rubbing off onto the creepers and children of creepers who wanted pictures. Worthy of note: this was like, EIGHT FRIKKIN' YEARS AGO. The movie had just come out, everybody had seen it, and every man, woman and child in America knew who I was. (Except for the little girl who was sure I was a Smurf. Sorry, sweetie.) Everything blue was a different color of blue and at a critical moment in the afternoon, one of my Styrofoam "ears" (or whatever they are... side horns?) fell off and landed in my cleavage.

Happy Halloween, everyone! May your body paint stay put, your tights never ride up, and your Styrofoam prosthetics remain true!