Pause for Thought

Where to start with this post. I suppose I should begin with the requisite "this piece will be all over the map" proviso. I also want to suggest, though it goes without saying, that I'm only positing ideas on the basis of my current perspective and experience at this time. Oh, and I'm sorry if this topic causes anxiety for anyone in the prime of life who hasn't hit the perimenopause roller coaster as yet. I just need to vent.

And with that, holy cow people, what the fuck is going on with me right now?

I'm not going to complain about the litany of things you've heard about in the past, namely the migraines. I don't want to be too optimistic on that front but my cocktail of supplements and (carefully monitored) phytoestrogens/hormonal precursors has taken the edge off. The headaches come and go, more unknowably than ever and they seem to last longer when they come before they go. Mind you, they're somewhat less extreme and less frequent, so I'm taking that as progress.

No, I'm talking about nausea. Absurdly, that nausea I've referred to in the past is - no joke - a fucking symptom of hormonal change. Think about this: I frequently encounter morning-sickness-esque symptoms (something I am ALL to familiar with having vomited daily for 7 months while actually pregnant) for no good reason - except that my fucking hormones are in chaos. Furthermore, I cannot stand the taste of certain food and drink which I used to enjoy.

Oh, and now's a good time to turn away if you're squeamish, but I'm also talking about managing the effects of a (perimenopausally-induced) endometrial polyp, discovered (after careful testing) on account of semi-regular hemorrhaging I have experienced. On the plus side, my iron and B12 are stellar, which is all but unbelievable under the circumstances. Apparently, I'm a star when it comes to iron and B12. Note: My daily endocrine-support yoga practice and acupuncture have been instrumental in ameliorating this challenging situation. Which is good because that was some scary shit.   

But never mind that. 

What I really want to talk about is the hit to my ego.

Let me start by saying this: I know I am a youthful individual. My nature is sparky and enthusiastic. I dye my hair. I look much younger than I am - as do all the women on my mother's side of the family. People tell me constantly that I look young. My doctor, last week - when I went for my shots - told me I look 22. (That's just not true, but you get my point.)

I dress stylishly in clothing that fits very well. I have an interesting face with a couple of good features. I'm not obese. I'm not unfit. I eat well (generally). I sleep 8 hours a night. I take vitamins to help me manage life stress - of which there is a reasonable (if "regular") amount. FWIW, prime, daily stressors for me are work, though I enjoy it, and parenting my kid. (Not to dwell, but the parenting is exceedingly stressful and demoralizing much of the time.)

Having said all of this, my body is changing, despite status quo external factors, and I am not pleased.

Look, I know exactly what's happening: my ovaries are conking out and my homeostasis-bound body is doing what it must to keep order. It's producing estrone via abdominal fat. (According to all accounts, it's not even producing a ton of estrone. I mean, I'm keeping it together according to the peeps who work with the women having estrogen-dominance.) The net result of this loop, alas, is a firm abdomen (thanks yoga!) under a layer of bloat and adipose tissue. Worse still, that tissue is NOT toned. It's a (less serious) version of the kind you may have experienced, and begrudged, 2 months after having had a baby. It's, frankly, much less attractive than my midsection of yore. Furthermore, my former midsection was always flat above the navel and in no way crept towards my waist or upper hips.

I realize that this is an entirely first-world problem, but it's fucking with my identity as a sexy hourglass and I do not appreciate it. Seriously, if there are two things I was confident about until quite recently it was that I was a) sexy as hell and b) an hourglass.*

This cannot persist.

Which brings me to the part of the post where I discuss the profiles of the Menopausal Woman, Kristin-style, which is to remind you that it's not worth the ether its written in:

A) First off, there's the slender woman who's always been slender in the midsection and who will continue to be slender until, realistically, death. Let's call her genetically lucky.

B) Then there's the woman - and I hesitate to say this, but I feel she's in the majority - who starts to put on the midsection pounds in her 40s, slowly but surely. First it's the boobs that gain a couple of sizes (in addition to a couple of inches in band size), then it's the abdomen, finally the hips and upper ass. By 50, she's a much squatter version of her former self, whatever that was. Alas, this shape speaks for itself and, sassy personality of its victim notwithstanding, it's not a hot look. I continually debate the preordinance of this scenario and I truly hope that I'm correct in my assertion that, while this may be the only path for some women, it's not the only way for most.

C) Finally, there's the woman who sees the writing on the wall and fights tooth and nail to retain the pre-menopausal shape she's was born with. Cue movie stars and people who live in NYC, Paris or North Toronto. Fighting may take the form of serious diet modification (for life), surgical modification or extreme fitness modification - perhaps even all three! Sure, eventually her face will give her away, but this lady's body's gonna look 35 for a long time.

Here's my dilemma.

I DO NOT LIKE ANY OF THESE OPTIONS.

The lanky-frame, genetic lottery ship sailed approximately 43 years ago. The slow train to boxy-ville is too depressing to consider. And the militaristic approach to, well, anything, is really not my way.

But, it seems, that the woman who eats and drinks a moderate amount (OK, in full disclosure, things are getting less moderate due to the ice age in which I currently find myself), exercises a moderate amount and makes sure she goes for a massage every once in a while, is not pleasing the menopause goddess. I mean Menopause Bitch.

This post is not about presenting solutions. I'm done with solutions for this week. This week, I'm in full wallow mode. (Happily, my current bout of PMS assists me in this respect.) Sure, I've got some tricks up my sleeve, don't I always? But I'm wearing thin, pun intended.

I'll close with a few general questions and I really would love your feedback: Do you think there's a menopause profile that I've neglected? If yes, could you make it one that will appeal to me? If you've gone through this life-stage, would you provide some optimism for those of us on the cusp? If you're on the cusp, would you at least pretend to be having a miserable time, like I am, just in the interests of commiseration? Presuming my perspective is correct, if you had to go through "the change" via Profile B or C, which would you opt for? Think about it carefully: Option B is frumpy - but fun, just like your life has been so far. Option C is attractive but soul-sucking. Let's talk.

*Now's a good time to mention that my husband, while he has no doubt observed these changes - cuz I never fucking shut up about them - would like you to know that he still finds me sexy as hell. And this is not a sponsored post.

This Is the State of My Brain And a Question

I don't know that I've ever worked in such a state:

See the wine on the floor?

OK, I actually think I might be getting somewhere but my fix is SO BIZARRE I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't come to it with trial and error pinning. Note: I'm about to make muslin 8 (I think it's 8). I've actually started tracing the pattern pieces because I'm afraid of the cuts I'm making now.

Here's the sleeve in its original form:

There's slightly less curve on the right side (the front sleeve) than on the left (the back sleeve).

However, given the changes I've needed to make to the side front piece - and to get things to fall smoothly in light of a) where the side front meets the front at the armscye and b) the topography of my chest leave me with a sleeve that looks like this:

Again, the right side of the photo is the front sleeve. From the sleeve head to the left (the back sleeve) there are no alterations from the original pattern.

I've pinned this and it works. Is this even possible???

Take the Long View

I lost the battle, in case you were wondering. My cerise, bias cut, boned waistband, wool blend Ginger skirt is lining a bin right now. Far better sewists than I end up making totally unwearable garments occasionally. I like to think of myself as being in good company.

(Note: Para 1 was written with 24 hours of perspective. Yesterday I was so hatefully hostile I actually couldn't write.)

Let's start with the evidence, and then I'll treat you to the whole, miserable tale...

Here's the freakin' zipper outcome the second time around?! I'd already ripped out the first zipper, silk organza interfaced the seam allowance, fusible interfaced the rest of the seam allowance (even below the zipper), and reinserted, with great care, the second zipper (the first one ended up breaking after I reinserted it into the skirt so, technically, this was my third go around).

To add insult to injury, below you will see the reasonably lovely Hong Kong seamed zipper area (obscuring all of the (useless) stabilization going on underneath).

And here's the (rather nice) boned waistband. In a terrific irony, this happens to be a many-stepped piece of cake:

So, what happened?

Well, I'm grateful to advise that I'm pretty sure I know exactly what went down, which given my relative nascence in the world of sewing, is a good thing.

The FUCKING invisible zipper debacle:

• For starters, I'm pretty pissed off with the pattern. OK, everyone loves Colette - including me - but I think that Sarai has done a disservice to novice sewists by including a bias-cut version of this Beginner pattern without the slightest bit of extra-instruction about how fucking complicated this can actually be. Let me make this entirely clear: If you are a beginner and you want to sew the Ginger skirt, more power to you - it's a great garment. But under no circumstances should you undertake the bias version until a) you've read everything here and then b) made some other stuff first - like, at least, three other skirts. And then, when you do make the bias version, expect a run for your money. It's a learning curve experience, peeps. Know that going in.

• I'm relieved to report (like it makes any difference, in the end) that I firmly believe my wool blend was never going to hold the zipper without waving. Of course, if I'd started off the right way, I would have avoided any stretching of the zipper area to begin with. But the fabric is so drapey that, on the bias, it actually acts more like a knit (without spring back) than a woven. If the pattern had some kind of warning about types of fabric not to use, this whole situation might have been averted. Or maybe not. But it certainly would have put the blame squarely on me.

• In fact, I've learned a brilliant lesson. You cannot use super springy, flexy fabric on a bias-cut garment. Not if you want to insert a zipper. Thing is, the apex of pull on this kind of fabric is not solely on the zipper-zone. Every seam supports the oppositional stretch of bias fabric. That oppositional stretch is particularly strong at the bottom third of the zipper.

• Point is: I believe this fabric was never meant for a bias-cut skirt, despite my efforts to control it. The more I interfaced (which was messy), the more the waves adapted.
  

• Do not try to control your fabric. You can manipulate it, gently, expertly. But if it wants to rebel you will need to be an extremely capable sewist - nay, an alchemist - to get it to conform.
  

Now, I may lose a battle. But the money's on me to win the war.

I came home tonight and cut out all new pieces. (I never buy twice as much fabric as I need but, this time, I got the end of a bolt so the shop keeper gave it to me for a discount. Mega-save!) Tonight, I did not cut the pieces on the bias. In fact, I cut the zipper seam on the selvedge for extra firmness. And I'm still going to organza interface - this time from the start. I've already assembled the skirt. Next I've got to insert the zipper. Maybe I'll tackle that tomorrow.

Because I know how this fabric will respond, and what seam allowances I should use, the cutting and sewing of the main pieces (including interfacing the waistband and facing) took a mere hour! Of course, that's the straight forward part.

I should mention the amazing new things I learned in this sewing experience:

• French seams - man, these make Hong Kong seams feel like torture. So easy. So pretty. Love!
• Boned waistband - I'll write more about this in another post, but really, this is not difficult. On this skirt I found the technique to be rather useless, but that's not the fault of the technique.
• Proper Hong Kong seams.
• How to make bias tape.
• Sewing a closure into a bias cut skirt.

There's lots more to say about this but I have to eat something :-)

I'd love to know about your experiences of inserting zippers on a bias-cut garment. Tell me anything you know about either zippers OR bias cut fabric. Let's talk!

Quick Update

So peeps, trying hard to type this lying on my back with legs up the wall. Got back from doc's today - news isn't exactly what I was hoping for. In brief: She thinks the first xray may have missed a fracture (I disagree, but then I have a vested interest in disagreeing. I choose to believe that my foot was strong and healthy, bone-wise, when this accident occurred and that that has prevented a break). She said it was the worst sprain she's ever seen (if in fact, it is a sprain) and she's sending me back to the hospital for more tests. On a rush basis. Tomorrow morning. I also had to get the air cast but not so that I can use it. No, I'm only allowed to lie with my leg elevated higher than my chest doing weird massage things to it and alternating ice and heat.

I'm trying very hard to focus on the positives - of which there are many - but I can't believe I may be immobile for much longer. I'm not allowed to go back to work (though I am working full days from home) till at least the 13th. This foot hurts quite a bit. It's almost Xmas. I'm lonely for face-to-face interaction. I'm worried about gaining weight - though I'm trying to be quite careful about how much I eat. I'm worried about atrophy of other muscles and asymmetry.

I know many people live through far more injury with much more grace. I realize that, in my moment of inattention, I could just has likely have hit my head or broken my knee. Or my arm - which would totally have precluded work and blogging and so many other things.

At any rate, that's all the news that's fit to print today.

Flip Side

I was all about to write a litany of complaints vis a vis the foot (starting to consider whether I've torn ligaments, since I'm still bed bound at the end of day 6 and I'm occasionally losing my mind about it), when it occurred to me that I've really got to change my attitude.

Today I was talking with my friend Sandra, admonishing her for not being adequately grateful for her mobility, when it occurred to me that I was sitting there bitching at her instead of being grateful for my healthy arms (which are using the computer to work from home), my strong constitution, my every breath - you get the idea.

So here's a list of opportunities (and gratitude) about living with a healing (really hideous, painful, dare I say severe) foot sprain:

• It appears that I've been going at rocket pace for months now (ok, years, but you get the point). I'm starting to wonder if any other kind of injury could have required me, so succinctly, to sit in one spot and rest.
• I don't have the flu, which is truly the worst illness ever.
• My office (specifically my manager) has been insanely accommodating, facilitating my remote work arrangement as I heal. I am truly grateful that, instead of making me feel guilty for this injury, they are encouraging me to take care and giving me opportunities to work despite my immobility.
• This happened the evening of (i.e. right after) the final big work project I've been alluding to for months.
• Online shopping lets you buy food from the UK and clothes for your kid - all in 10 minutes. With sales, if you're smart.
• I am an competent practitioner of Iyengar yoga - my only method of exercise (nay, movement) right now. It's also foot therapy. I've got a post coming up on this in the next couple of days.
• I only had to wait 3 hours in the emergency room and I got excellent care and it was free. (Thank you socialized medicine.)
• I'm not going as crazy as I thought I would. A woman I work with managed to (in a freak accident) fall off a ravine in July and she broke her foot and ankle. She went through major surgery, followed by 3 months of bed rest, and just returned to work 2 weeks ago - in an air cast. When I heard about this I sympathized tremendously. I grieved for her. Man, I thought of her with all of my positive vibes because I couldn't imagine a world in which I might be immobilized for 3 days, much less 3 months. There's a sweet sort of irony about this, no?
• I'm not outrageously hungry. Of course, I'm not doing much moving, but I never knew how much movement and hunger correlate.
• I can't get to the food easily. I don't need to explain this one, right?
• My husband has to do all the fetching and carrying - can't say how much I appreciate not doing any cooking or cleaning up.
• I have wine and the internet!!
• As Cal says (though she had a little help from the Buddha): It is not what we carry with us, but what we let go of that defines who we are.

Here's to being here now, peeps. xo

PS: For y'all who've recently dropped by to see my sewing posts, please don't lose interest. I do lots of them (too many, according to some!). Just having challenges sewing and photographing due to the injury. I'll be back to a cross section of sewing posts soon.

Update: I must have been in a wine-haze happy place when I wrote this. Today, my zen perspective is all shot to hell. For starters, I just dropped the phone (model circa 1990 and it weighs a pound) on my face and now I suspect I'm going to have a mega black eye as my eye is all weepy and puffy. WTF?!?!?!? (Did I mention I've now officially run out of arnica?) This is to say nothing of a second degree burn I gave myself about 2 weeks ago, pressing some fabric, which is still ugly and scar-ry on my forearm. Scott just advised that he wants me to sign an affidavit indicating that he blameless re: my numerous injuries, and I can see why. Oh, why are all of these things so ugly, even as they are painful?

Update 2: I can't believe I'm posting this, but I feel the need to show y'all the state of my foot seven days after the injury:

This photo is from Scott's cell phone and I can't figure out how to make it bigger... Like you want to see it bigger...

Hate to Love / Love to Hate

On the topic of bundt pans (um, is this really a post about cooking utensils???), I think I've mentioned that the one I used for years - cheap, teflon coated and practically disposable looking - was an incredibly frustrating baking companion.

Why it took me years to replace it is the question du jour. In truth, I barely baked for 10 years, so it's not like I was in the market for new cooking tools.

I also hadn't, at that stage, fully embraced the concept that you're only as good as your raw materials. Of course, I've always applied that philosophy to ingredients. But the implements are also so key to good results...

Really, this post is about how I went to Williams-Sonoma to replace said crap pan with a fancy, spesh one and had a rather shocking encounter.

For starters, even though I like to bitch about the place and laugh about the "more money than brains", professional mom baker clientele, I love everything about that store. I mean, except the price tags.

I love how they give you samples of seasonally-themed treats created from upscale, pre-mixed baking boxes you can then buy on the spot, not that I do. I love how they greet you at the door. I love how they don't bat an eyelash as they tell you about the $400.00 copper pan you are never going to purchase. I love how they display everything.

There are things I never knew I needed till I walk into W-S!

But here's the thing: A couple of weeks ago, when I'd finally committed to the idea that I would need to replace my bundt pan for a new one, I opted to check out my options there. I looked at 4 cast iron pans - 50 bucks each - all of which were cast incorrectly, leading to slight imperfections in the depth of one or another of the grooves. I reviewed each one deliberately. The SA went to speak with the manager about why every pan in stock seemed to display a similar imperfection and, if you can believe it, the manager suggested that the nubs of iron, gooping at the base, would not impact the overall appearance of the finished cake?!?!

I mean, you don't need a PhD in baking to realize that, whatever the batter abuts while cooking will reflect itself in the final mold. They didn't offer to order me a new one from America. They didn't remove the botched pans from the floor. What is happening people? I sense I'm witnessing the final decline of our civilization.

As a last straw, I checked out the bottles of food colouring and was horrified to see that they are charging $21.50 for 4 mini bottles of water with chemicals. The same water with chemicals I purchased later that day from Fiesta Farms for $2.25.

I walked over to The Bay and got a nicely weighted Cuisinart bundt for $25.00 - on sale for $19.00. It was not beautifully presented inside a box. It had no imperfections. It made a lovely, delicious cake. Hmmm.

In Lieu of Photos (So Far)

Today, while failing utterly at making a stupid, simple slip learning some incredibly useful lessons about sewing and how to develop as a human being (sorry, I meant human doing), I discovered that:

• It's better to err on the side of buying too much edging lace (even at 12 bucks a yard) because, when you are 4 inches short and your entire fucking project is ruined, it's kind of frustrating. Oh, and you still wasted 12 bucks on lace and 9 bucks on fabric only now you have nothing to show for it.
• Picot edge doesn't mean the bumpy side of the elastic.
• Pulling the elastic taught while sewing is not "clear and simple".
• Lingerie tricot is a fickle bitch and you should cut her.
• If you think you're getting a home made item of clothing from me this Xmas you are HIGH on drugs.
  

I don't even know what to say at this point. I'm so approaching hateful of everyone who's ever made a slip and said it's simple - even the wonderful, talented ones who post on it (with very clear instructions) for my learning enjoyment. It's. NOT. simple. Till you've manipulated that fabric and pulled on that elastic, it's a free-for-all of optimism. After, well then it's just demoralizing.

Tomorrow I'm going to figure out how to make one decent slip if I have to go out and spend a mint on lace (ugh) or start from scratch with a woven fabric or, as luck usually dictates, some combination of both.

Did I mention I just went to see New Moon this afternoon with 2 tweeny girls? Honestly the worst movie ever. For what it's worth, I'm not an advocate of abstinence (I know, you're shocked). That's just self-deprivation. Respectful and safe sex at a stage of maturity (certainly the point at which those pale, horrible characters were), natch, but honestly, those two should just fuck and get it over with.

PS: I have really bad PMS and I'm venting. Will return to the love-in with sewing presently.

Fabrication

I am so tired of being told that I can fix everything. It makes me feel like I am able to control - like I should control - every element of my existence. As a card-carrying control-freak, this is fuel to the flame. I'm sick of the media, of my community, of my own thought-patterns holding me hostage to unrealistic expectation.

No doubt, there are some things that, depite effort, some (though not all) people cannot control some (if not all) of the time. Among these: weight, appetite, fertility, socioeconomic status, body shape, job satisfaction, health, luck, sexual preference (I mean what you like, not whom)- and the list goes on.

I know it's not a popular modern concept to suggest that you may never be able to afford that yacht (or modest house in the neighbourhood of your choice). That you may never have a child, despite it being your greatest goal. That you may face frightening illness someday. That you might be the person with the metabolism that just will not let go of that final 20 pounds.

It's heavy, I realize. But I going somewhere with this.

In the face of all the things you can't necessarily control, there is one thing you can nab everytime. It's as simple as addition and as elegant as complex geometry.

You can dress like a movie star, trust me - in 99% of circumstances (I know there's always an exception) - even if you are low on funds, 20 pounds above your desired weight, saddened by life's challenges, hateful of your workplace, confused because (no matter how hard you try) your abs are still not rock hard etc.

Here's what you do:

Wear the right size.

• Take your measurements. I know, it's like heresy, but embrace the fear and do it anyway. What you will learn is that each of your various body parts has a certain circumference, measured in inches or centimetres. It's not rocket science. And it's not that scary when you consider that the numbers are simply a means of determining the right size of clothing to purchase or to make or have made.

• Take a tape measure shopping with you. You don't have to look like a freak in the showroom. Bring some stuff that should fit into the change room and measure while you test for stretch (which will impact the measurement somewhat unknowably). Then try it on. If everything you grabbed was too small (or big), because you're basing your choices on some imaginary mental image of your shape, no problem. Go a size up or down and try again.

• Make sure anything you buy is returnable. Show your new wares to a really well-dressed friend and ask him or her to give you an honest opinion of fit (not style). If you get a polite but negative response, take the goods in question back to the store and try yet another size - or forgo the item altogether if it's just not cut right for you.

Wear Good Fabric.

• This is where having tons of cash helps, though isn't a prerequisite. Understand that if you don't have money you need either a really good eye or a lot of time and probably a combo of both. Looking good takes time. You know that already. I mean, to point 1 above, you'll probably spend 2 hours in one store searching on fit - on numerous occasions. So what's a few days hunting down the right fit at a price you can afford. Note: As many will advise, thrifting and vintage will be your ticket to good fabric at the right price. If you don't like pre-owned, you'll have to get lucky or save your bucks. Or you could learn to sew. But that's a long-term strategy. Seriously.
  

• Good fabric has nice drape predicated on gauge and its suitability for the garment it's been used to make. In general, medium-weight, slightly stretchy fabrics skim many bodies attractively. They can be synthetic, natural or a mix of both. I suggest you hang out at a fabric store one afternoon and walk around feeling the bolts. Or you can touch everything, everywhere. That's what I do. No piece at Club Monaco/Holt Renfrew/Ca Va de Soi escapes my touch. If you think the fabric looks dicey, it probably does.

Suit your shape.

• If you don't really "get" your proportions, it's a mere accident when you find something that looks right. Of course, paying attention to that first, accidental item is key to locating other - and similar - shapes that fit on purpose. You can read a lot of style books that will tell you if you have a short waist or relatively long arms. Or you could try on a zillion styles and learn what works as you go along. Once your eye acclimates, you'll know exactly what to pick up (and what to leave) every time.

• You are a fingerprint. No other person, save maybe your mother or sister, will have anywhere near the same shape and proportions as you. The way weight settles on you is bound to be different than the way it settles on me. We can share the same body measurements and still not suit the same items. The combination of shape and drape with your frame is utterly unique. That's why you have to keep trying stuff on in order to know what works.

Be comfortable in your body.

• This is the substance of whole decades of psychotherapy for some, but this basic rule applies: To change your attitude about your body you need to change your brain chemistry. You can do that with drugs or exercise or sex other mood altering behaviours. Find one that works.
  

• Not to harp, but yoga is particularly useful in achieving this goal. Many studies show that people who do yoga experience greater body awareness which leads to the adoption of habits that make them healthier in the long run. Yoga's main influence is on the endocrine system - neurotransmitters and hormones. When those are in balance, one is grounded emotionally and body shape and skin tone are optimal. The action of asana (poses) is to stabilize the skeleton and lengthen muscles. This reinforces symmetry - a healthful quality that greatly assists in the elegant wearing of clothing.

• If you don't feel it, neither will we. The basis of attractiveness is recognizing what you bring to the table. Which is, in itself, based on gratitude. You may not possess Elle MacPherson's body - but the one you have enjoys the pleasures of this life. It mobilizes you and it heals you when you're sick - not to mention it's the image you project. Regular and organized movement will make you aware of your body's awesome achievements. Be confident and you will look confident. Which is always attractive.
  

Try This On For Size

You don't need to be a fashion designer or a seamstress to know that modern sizing is based on the whim of winged fairies, aka marketers.

Time was (in the era of standard clothes sizing) all number sizes approximated a specific measurement. That's to say, if you were a standard US size 8, your bust measurement was 35 inches and your waist measurement 26.5 etc. These days, at the Gap, a size 8 will fit a bust size of 40 and a waist of 31. (By the way, that's merely an estimation because every freakin' size 8 thing at the Gap fits differently.)

Catalog, or vanity, sizing - is the way to encourage sales by inflating self-worth based on relatively meaningless numbers.

Now don't get me wrong. The numbers are very meaningful as they relate to what size item one wears to be perfectly attired. They just don't correspond very accurately with your value as a human being or degree of attractiveness. Which in no way undercuts their evil power. Because, I don't know about you, but as those numbers diminish, my perceived gorgeousness goes through the roof.

Let me be the first to say I love the "catalog approach". I mean, it's a psychological gold star - projection par excellence! Recently, as everyone on the planet knows, I started to sew. On purchasing my first pattern, I was mildly horrified (though I knew to expect it, from years of reading and because I buy vintage) that my measurements accord with a size 6 numbers larger than my "regular" one.

Admittedly, I'm not convinced that the pattern in question uses standard measurement either. I mean, I have another pattern for which my measurements accord with a mere 4-number increase. Go figure.

You know I made my first skirt recently. (I promise, I will do a photo post, I've just been feeling so hideous and burned out lately that I can't bear to put on a smile and pretend I'm cute.) At any rate, I made the skirt and it fits really nicely, much as any nicely fitting piece would fit, and I don't really give a shit - after the fact - that it's a modified size 12.

The thing about clothes that fit perfectly is that they fit perfectly. They make you look good because they're doing what they're designed to do - to enhance the human shape that happens to house your consciousness.

Let's do a little quiz: What's the difference between a size 6 and a size 12 (or 18 etc.)?

Answer: Some inches of fabric.

Yeah, that's about it. Crazy, huh?

In the Victorian era, when your tailor made you a dress (you were rich, right?), it didn't have a tag. It wasn't necessary. Your garment was made to size. Your size. You didn't need to pick it up off a hanger in a shop. The seamstress used the adequate amount of fabric to produce the desired shape. That's why we should all know how to sew - to interpret fabric. Or have people who do, at very least.

When the required inches of fabric are there, your clothing glides over you like a butter. When they're not, you look like a sausage pretending to be a spear of asparagus (which goes nicely with the butter, but still). And that's even if you are a spear! Conversely, you may also look like a paper bag. Note to reader: holiday cooking will commence shortly.

I'm not going to sit here and pretend I don't believe that some people aren't infinitely more physically attractive than others. I'm not even going to posit that everyone has an equally nice clothes frame (and I'm not talking about fat vs thin. I'm talking about dimension, skin texture, tone, strength, symmetry - these come at a size 20 as well as a 2). Lord knows, the genes that cursed you with crappy hair might have blessed you with great tits. Some things are not in your control.

I am going to tell you, categorically, that if you don't look as good in your clothes as you want to (and as you can), the reasons are more than likely these:

1. You are wearing the wrong size - either too big or too small.
2. You are wearing unlovely fabric (something that doesn't drape well / sit nicely, probably because it is badly constructed or cheap).
3. You are wearing a shape that is not compatible with your shape. And let's face it, your shape wins.
4. You are not comfortable in your skin.

At the risk of having put you to sleep with this volume of text, I'll leave it till my next post to share some pragmatic solutions to resolve these ubiquitous challenges.

In the Pink

Here's what happens: You find yourself pregnant. You jump for joy (or sigh with ambivalence) at the enormity of it all. You tell a bunch of people (waiting 3 months is impossible). They are thrilled (or tell you cheerful horror stories about everything from stretch marks to never sleeping again). They ask you if you're going to find out the sex of the baby. You don't know. You and your partner (and your best friend and your mother and your partner's mother and the woman in the cubicle down the hall) have different opinions about what to do. On the one hand, wouldn't it be easier to know "for planning purposes"; on the other, aren't you going to need some kind of big ass surprise to undercut the pain of childbirth?

You opt to be surprised. You're old school that way.

As the months march on, everyone has an opinion about what kind of baby you're having. Your mother is sure it's a boy. The woman in the cubicle just knows it's a girl because she's had 3 and her sister-in-law had 2 boys and she was right guessing every time. You don't know what to do. Baby Gap has cute stuff in green and yellow but, let's face it, they're cop-out colours. What's it gonna be, pink or blue. (In truth, you'll happily dress your little boy in green or yellow but who are you kidding, the girl's going home in pink.)

The big day comes. Actually, it's 3 o'clock in the morning, but who's counting. The baby is born and...

... it's a GIRL!

And now the fun begins. Not the love and the gratitude and the planning for the future. You know I mean the dress up. And fortunately, between vomit and 24 hour shifts, you get to do it all the time! But every little ruffly, candy-pink sleeper is cuter than the last.

The infant becomes a toddler who tantrums at the idea of wearing anything vaguely approaching gender-neutral. Fortunately she looks great in pink. Who doesn't, really? It brings out the roses in your cheeks. The toddler becomes a pre-schooler who will only wear pink or she's not leaving the house - just because. Pre-school gives way to the liberty of full day education - and peer pressure. Now pink is de rigeur because everyone else is wearing it. Eventually, pink is great because it's the colour of the background of the latest tween sensation's homepage.

You see where I'm going with this - my treatise on the inculturation of sexism from the get-go - unwavering feminism be damned. Barbies may be evil, but good luck pushing orange when you positively can't stand one more iteration of fuchsia.

So I guess I should be grateful that my kid will only wear purple this fall. I could handle a little novelty.

Savings and Rant

I'm on this "egad my Visa bill arrived and it's high - like on drugs (and bucks) - so I'm never going to spend any money again or until next month, whichever comes first" kick.

You know, a month is a long time.

Some efforts I've been making:

• Bringing certain foods from home to supplement the breakfast and lunch I buy at work. Yes, I know, it's financial suicide buying your breakfast and lunch, but it's the way I (harried working householder and mother) get out my door every morning with time to walk to work. And I do have strategies for buying v healthy and less $$ lunches. Gist is, I've cut my daily food budget in half for the foreseeable future. And while that isn't cold turkey (hahaha - get it?), it's an adequate start in my books.

• Not buying discretionary items: No checking out that new B Brown gel eyeliner till the restriction lifts, using my "no longer fave but still in the medicine cabinet" face products because the fab ones have run out recently, avoiding the cheese boutique with the awesome imported things from Italy.

• Not going out for dinners out (at least not $ ones)... Friday night restaurants with friends will be replaced by at home dining with friends. It's a lot more work but the food is generally better. And the atmosphere rocks.

So, I've been going along like this for a while - a few days now - and it's good. I'm one of those people who likes to spend up to a delicate tipping point (until she feels like she's losing sight of the financial picture) and then pulls it back from the edge. I think of myself as someone who spends hard and then saves hard (oh, who are we kidding, maintains the accounts as they must be maintained hard) but when I look at some of my blog friends (Enc, Sal) I recognize that my hallmark is not doing anything particularly extreme. In as much as I will retreat from the spend, I don't like to give it all up.

Intriguingly, that's my approach to eating too...

Soon, you're going to see a post in which I show you a great lunch I bought (fear not, it's a take out salad) and a new item of clothing. I'm not on a ban, as I've advised, though even if I were, it wouldn't make me an evil failure to buy when I'm trying not to. I carefully weighed the implications of each purchase, and I am entirely comfortable with the cost to benefit ratio. I paid cash and I will consider foregoing something else for the pleasure of having purchased these things.

I mention this, in part, because I've been stunned to learn that my blog friends who have undertaken the "long term ban" methodology - a worthy and challenging one indeed - have been occasionally harangued in commentary for having "admitted to" their lapses.

That blows my mind. I mean, I love hearing about the exploits of others - the fun challenges to which they subject themselves, the lessons they learn, the wisdom they can impart. It's how I live a whole bunch of experiences without having to go there myself! I like to think a couple of you may do the same when hearing about my trip to Mtl or cooking a new meal. (And might I say that I am blessed in that, to date, my every commenter has been lovely and positive.)

What I can't imagine is anyone offering up judgment and criticism to someone who's been open enough to share his or her methodology. It's pissing me off.

I suspect that hundreds of people have found subtle (if not gross) ways to reconsider and amend their acquisition habits for having read the "shopping ban bloggers". That's a public service peeps. These are real people with real lives, not paper doll role models.

That's the problem with being good. People judge you every time.

(Not So) Clean and Sober - Updated

We're crossing a new frontier at the K.Line household: My baby (aka the 9-year old) will leave for sleep away camp at the end of this week. She'll be away for 13 glorious days and nights, the first 8 of which I'll spend at home on "staycation" (don't you loathe how overused this word is??).

This has been a long time in coming, arguably - um - 9 years, but I've worked particularly proactively over the last year to encourage M, for her sake and mine, to branch out and live freely at art camp. At first, she wasn't so sure. The idea of being in the beauty of nature surrounded by a zillion kids of her own age with swimming was appealing. But the thought of going to a new place without parents made her nervous. The deal breaker (assisted by burgeoning maturity over the last year of school) was learning that, for 2 weeks, she'd have a good shot at scoring more than one dessert after dinner and avoiding showers - plus no parental nagging! That, I'm happy to say, cinched it entirely.

Many parent bloggers (the mommy bloggers and the rest of us who just happen to blog and have kids) have posted recently about their melancholy feelings re: the encroaching maturity of their tiny tots. This, my friends, is not the tale you'll hear from me. I could not be more thrilled about M's independence, about her urge to find freedom in new experience, about the freakin' time away from parenting that I will enjoy while she's away enjoying camp.

This is the longest in a decade (let's include the joy of pregnancy for the purposes of this post) that I'll have gone without being responsible for the care and feeding and watering and nagging of my precious child. I don't have parents close by who can help me on a regular (or even semi-regular) basis. My in laws are of no assistance whatsoever. I have no siblings close by - no family of any sort. All of my parent help, such as it is, comes from friends who are already overscheduled by their own parenting or busy careers or general life responsibilities. Oh, and that for which I pay: daycare and (now) camp.

It ain't cheap - let me tell you - but what price freedom?

Here's the kicker. I've been dreaming and planning and bitching and preparing and renovating for months now to position myself to enjoy this staycation in my beautiful garden with fine food and great booze in style. I went to critical lengths to get the garden reno done. I've spent money I should save (arguably) to make the back yard fab-u-lous. Lord knows, between the steep costs of camp and the garden there is no money to go on hols elsewhere. The weather, heretofore hideous, seems to be cooperating now.

But freakin' bloody hell, the city has chosen this week to start a garbage strike (the last one - deeply etched into my memory - lasted 16 hideous days) as has the union that runs the LCBO (the main licensing body for alcohol in this province). You got it peeps - my brief reprieve is threatened by stench (you know I live downtown) and sobriety. Ah, that's a one-two punch.

Let's look at the bright side: I've stocked up on some wine and a couple of LCBO outlets will be run by management till the strike resolves (you can bet they'll be defiant picket crossing there!). I'm going to assume that my lovely neighbours and those who live across the alley behind my backyard - plus all the random people in the neighbourhood who have access to that alley - will opt not to garbage dump anywhere near my beautiful urban oasis. I am optimistic. After all that's what the city streets and parks are for. (Sorry, brief relapse of cynicism.)

I'm going to imagine that LCBO management will keep restaurants stocked and/or they don't go dry in the first week of the strike (how could they) which means, at least, that I'll still enjoy some lovely lunches and dinners out - if not on patios next to heaps of garbage.

I'm going to have a good opportunity to confront my dependencies and cultivate bramacharya.

I am grateful for all the things I do have and the time off. I'm going to learn just how much freedom is a matter of attitude.

Wish me luck. Okay?

Update: The LCBO strike was resolved at the 11th hour! Seriously. And, according to the news reports, there is practically no wine on the shelves anywhere today. Well, not so clean and not so sober...

To The Unfortunate Woman At Bungalow the Other Day...

When the (presumably commissioned) SA at the boutique says over-enthusiastically - but with pinch - "Ooooh, that top is sooooo cute!", the subtext is: on the absurdly svelte woman with the cut arms who bought it yesterday.

Nothing drives me crazy as sales people bullshitting clueless, awkward young girls.

It's so unnecessary.

Rich Kids

So last weekend I was transported, briefly, into a melancholy altered state of nostalgia while watching the 1979 film Rich Kids. Prior to turning on the TV that night, it's a movie I'd never heard of - thanks Saturday Night at the Movies - though when I did a little research learned that a) Robert Altman produced it b) the reviews were quite favourable and c) the budget was cut rather unceremoniously to defray the financial and critical disaster that was Heaven's Gate.

Heaven's Gate is a movie that's strangely dear to my heart though I'd never seen it either, till last year (also courtesy of SNAM). My father had a little something to do with its production. Shortly thereafter, we moved to Canada. Coincidence?

At any rate, Rich Kids is a movie about urban affluence, two kids coming of age in the late 70s and, moreover, about the soon-to-explode trend of upper-middle-class, middle-aged divorce.

The kids in question are on the cusp of adolescence (12) in 1979. As I watched the film with my husband, we were intrigued by how related we felt to the boy and girl characters even though, in 1979, I would have been 9 and he would have been 15. We related to urban landscape of pre-renewal NYC though he'd been a Montrealer and I lived in Toronto (via NY, interestingly enough).

I mean, Scottie'd had that haircut; I'd worn those overalls - unironically. I'd lived in a house like that, gone to private school. We both remember those pot smoking newly single dads with their hipster, newly-single pads and all the girls. (Note: we both have parents who are still married to one another, but we're just about the only ones.)

The late seventies were a time of gorgeous, modern (nascent, but as we know it) debauchery that resonates because I was conscious and I was there.

The divorce sub-plot was particularly interesting to Scott and me, as a long-married couple, with a daughter, who have managed to bandy around the concept a few times in our day. I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but I've almost got divorced just slightly less often than I've had depraved, passionate make-up sex. I'm not proud. Sometimes it's tough being married. It's tough to carve out a meaningful life in the context of family while desperately striving to nurture one's own needs as an individual. It's tough parenting. These things are frequently unsexy. They are insistently real.

A propos of divorce in the movie - as in the day - I should mention that it was driven by the (then-emerging, almost in full swing) ennui brought on by changing mores, by first wave feminism crashing against old-school conventions. While watching the film I wanted to scream at the screen, occasionally, to say "Listen, Cushy Richies with the house in the Hamptons: Do you honestly think the world gets better for leaving what you've struggled to create in the pursuit of free love and some soft drugs?"

You know you can do that within the construct of marriage.

Rich Kids was melancholy, rather than tragic, because it tackles divorce without the 360 degree view. It's about moving on without backlash.

Look, I'm as much for divorce as the next girl, when it's the clear course of action. (And really, other than in my own marriage, who the hell am I to judge what constitutes that?) But I've seen enough people go through it - people from then, people from now - who start off believing that divorce is redemptive when, sometimes, sadly, it's pointless.

One night, as early parents, sleep-deprived by paralysing stress and the needs of a baby, after another fight about another stupid subject about which we were destined to disagree, I advised my husband that the word divorce was theretofore off limits. I clearly remember saying if you want to crash and burn, let's do it. Otherwise shut the fuck up. I cannot carry on a relationship in the black shadow of its demise. I remember cuz I thought it was kind of smart and poetic for 3 a.m.

And he thought about it for a second. And then he said ok.

And, so far, we're still married. (I recommend it.)

New Gimmick Alert

You know how I love Pantry. You know how I love all things Dutch.

And, damn straight, you know how I feel about food.

So this was a no-brainer when I saw it while brunching last weekend:





Oh, and I also got a mini packet of Soma Malted Milk Hot Chocolate:


It's like crumbles of insanely high quality chocolate - like, it has 4 ingredients and you've heard of all of them - and you put them in a saucepan with water (cream would kill you) in a ratio of 2:1, chocolate to water. The packet shown makes 2 espresso sized cups. And it cost 5 bucks (?!) but it would be cheap at twice the price because it's the most awesome thing you've ever tasted. Like hot chocolate custard in a cup. But richer.

No word of a lie, it's like an orgasm in a tempered glass and I am so about to foist it on everyone I know. If only this had been in my life during the Xmas shopping season...

What I particularly like about Soma, aside from the chocolate, is the fact that it's all Canadian. What I don't like is that it's located in the Distillery District, a place I truly loathe.

Oh, I know, you're thinking, K - what's not to like about "the largest and best preserved collection of Victorian Industrial Architecture in North America". Oh, I don't know. Maybe that the developers have made it feel Disney-built, somehow?

I mean, you go to Montreal and literally every surface gleams with history. Hell, even Toronto has some pretty nicely preserved enclaves (Wychwood Park, anyone??). And then, in the most contrived of commercial ventures, up goes "historic Toronto". And they don't even have the decency to put it in a convenient location. That last sentence is a joke. Sort of.

The point is, I don't care how good this chocolate is. If they didn't distribute, I wouldn't be eating it.

In Which K Discloses She Can't Get It Up For Much Right Now

I've been meaning to pair those new hot pink tights (I finally bought them, maybe I should frickin' take a photo) with the fuchsia mini.

I've been meaning to take a glamorous picture of me in the new starlet glasses.

I've been meaning to discuss some interesting stores.

I've been meaning to have a meaningful shopping experience (not expensive, just good).

Somehow none of these things has happened as yet.

What's happened lately is I drag my ass out of bed fighting off whatever illness is gripping my household that week, put on the most inoffensive (yet casual) thing I can get away with at work because it's minus 150 degrees, grimy wet outside, and nothing else goes with a fucking parka. Then I try not to eat my body weight in questionable carbs because I'm so bummed by being a) freezing b) light deprived c) hideously dressed in 50 layers and just a bit tired of everything. I force myself to walk because it's the only frickin' exercise I seem to do lately what with the urge to practice yoga having gone on a strange hiatus. Bad timing really.

I'm loathe to apologize for having neglected the personal style portion of this blog because it is my blog, after all, and I figure y'all like me enough to give my posts the benefit of the doubt, topic notwithstanding.

I also recognize that, realistically, I have to post on a broad variety of topics - from fashion to sex toys to weird life occurrences to interiors to food and on - in order to continue to do it frequently, and happily. Right now, and this could change in 2 days, I'm not feeling very lovely. I'm not feeling very photogenic. I'm not feeling very well put together.

And I'm not loving so much of what I've seen in the fashion weeks. Admittedly, I'm not invested this season. I'm trying to be a little less gripped by novelty because, really, what do I need (even if, in my wardrobe, I am going to acknowledge the designer look diffusion-style)? What does it benefit me to get caught up if I'm really making an effort to be more "edited"? I'm not getting off the bandwagon because I don't love to shop or because I don't love clothes. I just don't want to give away anything I currently own, and I'm not leading the life of an American socialite.

This post is in some measure to mention that the personal style (and/or fashion) element of the blog may be a bit thin on the ground until the weather changes. Or not.

You know how I like to practice the white art of caprice...

This Is High On Drugs

Usually my husband won't let me go food shopping with him. He calls me (lovingly, natch) "the liability". On the weekend, however, I managed to tag along for the ride. Just to make things a bit easier aka more expensive and off-list.

I'm telling you, there's some scary stuff at the grocery store:


Um, am I the only one who sees the irony in this shit? I'll have you know that the box has no actual flavour ascribed to it. It's simply chocolate "coloured" with REAL chocolate chips.

Cuz you know how low brow the fake ones are.

Not to Distract You From My Other Posts...

...Which are arguably at least partially about something other than the illness that's floating around the K.Line household, but check out Secret Spineless Whine if you want to see how I spent last night.

I feel like I'm losing it sometimes.

Addicted

Some people are just not appetite-driven. (You know, the ones that can do a little cocaine recreationally? The ones who eat a single, slim potato chip and stop? Those who pass by a Baskin Robbins, like, completely unphased?)

Well, apparently, I'm not one of those people. At least not when it comes to Club Monaco. Apparently, at CM I have a problem.

Here's the thing. Everything in the entire fucking store is beautifully displayed, deliciously tactile and it looks great! I could seriously spend 3K in 10 minutes on some crazy shopping blitz. (Not that I have done, or would do, this. Of course.) I have this absurd and bourgeois perspective that, if something fits gorgeously, then it's only right that you should own it. I mean, not at Chanel... But at Club Monaco, this seems reasonable. And, naturally, this absurd, consumptive, relatively affluent perspective is offensive. Not to mention insane. So I apologize. But just in that temporal, guilty way that addicts (stopping in at the local 12-step prior to meeting the dealer 'round the corner at Starbucks) do.

May I also say that, if you were one of those people who needs to look chic but couldn't care less about the creativity and eclecticism inherent in building a wardrobe slowly, with love, over time - not this demographic, obvs - then you could drop into CM one Wednesday evening (preferably at the beginning of a sale) and buy every staple you require, plus a little bit of bling, no problem. And people would stop you to tell you how much they love your ____.

I seem to be the only one who writes about this place. Is it just me who loves it to bits???

Please stay tuned for tomorrow, when I continue to harp on about this - but throw a couple of photos in for good measure.

T Cubed

So, you'll recall this post: homage to my insecurities. Ode to the status anxiety that (occasionally) riles me up.

Well, gots to say peeps (cuz I know I've said it before): Fuck status anxiety. Enough of the why aren't I a Rhodes scholar with a chalet in Klosters and an Emmy? Maybe because my heretofore efforts at fame and fortune have been, um, slightly unfocused? Maybe it's just not my path?

I've decided instead, to tell you all 10 Terrific Things (Triple T) about me. Note to Miss Perkin, my former headmistress: This is how I've amounted to something, in no particular order.

1. I own a home in downtown Toronto. And it's nice.
   
2. I'm a true communicator - life and career skill par excellence. And I love and value - with indescribable fervor - the interchange of ideas and negotiation of agreement this skill supports.
   
3. My style reflects my eclectic micro-creativity (with which I am thrilled to tell you I am entirely satisfied). It also appeals to others.
   
4. I've managed to coparent a human being to the age of 8 (so far) without completely going insane. And I've done it with relatively little external support - though with the collaboration of a very engaged spouse.
   
5. I live by my principles in a sustainable way.
   
6. I am healthy and I work consciously - with discipline - to stay that way.
   
7. I am resilient and I frequently solve problems with uncanny spontenaity.
   
8. Which is why plan a fine event - media or otherwise.
   
9. I generally get what I want. Because I ask directly. But respectfully.
   
10. I am super fucking smart.

Oh, and bonus point, I'm modest. Did I mention that? :-)

So Dolls. I would love to know about your Triple T (and that can be two or three or 10 - depending on how much comment space you feel like taking). I say, live large. You may save the world yet. And I am all ears.