Jan 18, 2008 | This Life
It’s been a Craftastic day! I can’t help it, I’ve had that word in my head for a week! That and “Great Googily Moogily.” They’re addictive, these fantastical expressions. Try using them. You’ll see. You’ll be stuck on them like your first cup of coffee, stuck. What, you don’t steal words from small children’s cartoons and incoorporate them into your vocabulary? It’s just me, huh?
Anyhow, the boy and I got to crafting this afternoon. I dumped my box of vintage fabric scraps on the dining room table and we set to work doing a little mixed media fabric collage. Boy Wonder was all excited because it meant he got to use my new cutting tools and the iron. What is it about boys and tools? Don’t go there. I’m shocked I was so calm, considering my child was brandishing both a knife and a hot iron.
Calming it was. It’s been a two mocha a day, so the calm was welcomed! I feel like I’ve been running since I stumbled out of bed. There has been glorious light here on the North Coast this week, and I’ve been taking advantage of it shooting photos for Thrifty Goodness. I’ve been a bit manic in the process, though. Running about in my handmade pjs not bothering to get dressed, up and down the stairs between the sunlit rooms, the disaster in my craft room, and my computer in the living room serving as a make-shift office. Sometimes, you forget to breathe.
The afernoon was so theraputic, even Snickers wanted in on the scene. Boy Wonder is usually such a chatty companion, no matter what he’s doing. But even he fell into a contented silence, concentrating on his collage. He dreams big this boy and wouldn’t settle for a simple pattern. It’s interesting to watch him work and see his process; we are so different and I find his approach inspiring. He’s just beginning he says—but likes working with these fabrics. “You know, Mom, these vintage fabrics are like art themselves.” That’s my boy!
I may be crafty, but this boy, this boy is an artist. I can’t wait to see it finished. He’s been checking in every so often, “What do you think of it so far?” I think it’s magnificent!
It’s Friday. On a cold but clear day here on the edge of the world, we spent the afternoon doing a little art therapy. What did you do today to lower your blood pressure?
Jan 17, 2008 | This Life
Â
If you were falling, then I would catch you.
You need a light, I’d find a match.
Cuz I love the way you say good morning.
And you take me the way I am.
If you are chilly, here take my sweater.
Your head is aching, I’ll make it better.
Cuz I love the way you call me baby.
And you take me the way I am.
I’d buy you Rogaine if you start losing all your hair.
Sew on patches to all you tear.
Cuz I love you more than I could ever promise.
And you take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.
You take me the way I am.
~~Ingrid MichaelsonÂ
Jan 16, 2008 | This Life
Taking a photo of my t-shirt is proving difficult. It’s like the perfect storm of photography. Turns out, it’s not exactly photogenic. It looks like hell hanging on a hanger and the color is almost impossible to capture correctly. It’s really a muted rosy pink. But every photo of it suggests it might be possessed with the evil spirit of Neon. Out, out, you vile thing.
So, I figured, why not take a photo of it ON. That makes sense, right? Never mind that I just wrote a piece about self doubt yesterday. Never mind I have a few weight issues. Ahem, let’s just say it, I’m PUDGY. (even if I “don’t look like an overweight person”. pfft) If I was a Nancy Drew character I would be Bess Marvin, the side-kick who was always described as “pleasantly plump.” Yeah, that’s me. Juicy. And like my t-shirt, I’m not exactly photogenic. I’m not. No, please don’t tell me I am. The photos you see of me are the select few that I allow to be published. Control your image, that’s what I say.
Anyhow, turns out, IZ is a terrible photographer. I knew this to begin with, but I have selective amnesia sometimes. I’m ever hopeful he’ll get at least one shot that doesn’t make me look like a beached whale. Or in this case, a curvy Bess Marvin wearing a neon shirt. Oy! The self shots I took are WAY better than the truth-telling wide angle lens shots he got of me. Shots I promptly deleted. (Oh, the joys of digital. No more waiting three days to see what you already know to be true: time to hit the gym, girlfriend.) I had no choice, I snatched my camera back.
It also turns out that I live in a ridiculously yellow house. No amount of juggling my very heavy camera would alleviate this, as every angle seemed to grow only more yellow. Jaundice anyone? So, I ran upstairs to take a few photos in our tranquil blue-green bedroom. If anyone were to look at the recent history in my iphoto account, they’d call me out for the narcissist that I am. Holy cow, you really can take a hundred bad photos. Ok, I exaggerate. But only slightly. It’s not my fault that there were errant socks in one frame, right? Or a ring of dust in another, or an unmade bed. And, what’s that coffee cup doing there?
What was that I was saying about controlling the image?
So, this girl in the mirror. This girl needs to lose a little weight. She needs to learn to love herself enough to do so. She also needs to recognize her strengths. Like writing an amusing sentence. Or telling a funny joke or tackling sewing projects without patterns. Or baking really fattening yummy desserts. She might want to consider not baking the really fattening yummy desserts so much. But she could also lighten up on herself while she’s in the process of lightening herself up.
And she should probably clean her room.
Jan 15, 2008 | This Life
I know I promised photos of my new obsession, jersey knit. Truth is, after uploading a photo to Saturday’s post, I realized that I wasn’t exactly finished with project. The neckline needed a few more circles to fill in the spaces that look gaping in the photo. In real life, it wasn’t so bad, but photos tend to expose flaws the naked eye easily misses. IZ insisted that it was “fine”—I secretly sewed on just a few more. An afternoon of surreptitiously adding rosettes and I think I’m happy with it now. Maybe.
This is a habit in my life. The “I’ll just tweak it a bit more” compulsion is really my inner perfectionist making herself heard. It’s why IZ once painted a kitchen 5 times before he came to his senses and told me enough. It’s why deadlines are a good thing. It’s why I’ll never publish anything without one. I’m never content to just leave things as is. Tweak, tweak, fuss, fuss, frustration, obsess, re-write, obsess some more, this word, that word, pulling my hair out now, knot in my stomach. The progression is as pointless as it is predictable. Let it go, is not in my vocabulary. In any language.
I wish my inner perfectionist would stay in her place. I don’t mind the needling with my writing. I’ve come to expect it and I don’t know that I could actually write without her tyrant voice in my ear. But, it’s not helpful when you’re learning a new skill, like, say, sewing. And I’ve tried very hard to banish the red-headed bossy girl in my head to another realm when I sit down at a sewing machine. Surely she can find someone else to criticize for a few hours? Surely she has silver to polish or floors to clean in her realm, right? I can keep her at bay for a few hours, but I’m rarely successful at outright banishment. Instead, she shows up after I’m done, to pick, pick, pick at my mistakes.
I’m riddled with self doubt. That might surprise you, but it’s true. I have no reason to be, really. Any more than you do. But, that doubt is the lens through which I see so much of what I do. What shows up are the mistakes, of which there are plenty in this wee t-shirt of mine. Some of them are intentional: as in, I didn’t finish any of the edges. That was a choice I made, because I wanted a certain effect and I figured a first time sewing project in knit should be simple. Other mistakes are learning lessons, opportunities to do it differently next time. This is what I tell her, my perfectionist. She doesn’t listen.
Yet, I’m ridiculously proud of myself. Despite the fits and starts, despite the errors and mistakes, this shirt FITS. And I made it without a pattern. I used a completely new-to-me presser foot. Figured out how to program my machine to stitch in overlock. Best of all, I actually finished something for myself.
I can’t help but notice, even here, that it’s my mistakes I start with… the primary lens through which I’ve been looking. Perhaps it’s time for a new lens? I mean, what could be possible if I didn’t focus my flaws and instead, noticed the potential? Who would I be, if I could start with what I learned, with what I gained, with what I conquered, with what I want to become? If I was the kind of person who asked, “What can go right?” instead of focusing on what can go wrong. Who would I be, if I evicted my inner perfectionist? I can’t help but wonder.
Who would you be?
Jan 12, 2008 | This Life
No post or photos**. Just this to say: I’m in love with jersey knit and a presser foot I like to call “J”. Oh. My. Life is so rosy.
But, in my drunken state of love I kinda forgot to preshrink my fabric. It’s always so messy at the beginning of love affairs.
**UPDATE: Ok, one photo on a very stormy Monday. Better photos tomorrow when sun is promised.
Jan 11, 2008 | This Life
Friday night’s typical fare is take-out. Usually Chinese or Japanese food and whatever Sci-Fi the boys can get their hands on. We set up shop on our comfy couch for the evening. I don’t mind, really. I won’t eat their food or watch their shows, but I still hang out—snuggled into what has become a Friday night tradition.
But tonight is an exception. One of Boy Wonder’s friends asked him to dinner and we gleefully said “Yes!” IZ and I wasted no time formulating a plan for our evening alone. He’d make fresh pesto and salad and warm crusty bread; I’d head to the store for a buttery bottle of wine. I set our table with a real table cloth, lit a few candles, put on my favorite opera on the stereo. I even broke out never been used vintage Vera napkins… I didn’t know why I’d been saving them, until now. Dinner for two seemed like the perfect reason.
We dined and laughed and talked about adult things. He’s an amazing cook and conversationalist. I snapped his photo in the candlelight and looking through the lens realized once again how blessed I am. He is and will always be my soul mate.
And then Boy Wonder came bounding in with tales of his own dinner. How much fun he had. What he ate. Who said what. Can he do it again?
“Yes” we gleefully agreed.
