This should be a treat – on Friday night, I have to go clubbing.

“Treat” is sarcasm. “Have to” is because I really do have to – it’s for Shan’s stagette, which I wouldn’t miss even if it filled me with anxiety and dread .. which, coincidentally, it totally does.

Shan wants to go drinking and dancing for her stag, so that’s what we’re doing. We’re going to the Waldorf for hip hop night, which I assume will be filled with people in skinny jeans and fringed scarves shuffling ironically to Maestro Fresh Wes and Young MC. The Waldorf scares me as it is – we like to play at hipsterism, but these people are the Real Deal – and bars are my natural enemy. I am desperately uncomfortable in bars. I’ve overcome most of my social anxiety, but it ramps back up to Cold War levels when I’m around drunk people. And clubbing – I don’t even know where to begin with that; everything I know about clubbing I know from TV and it always looks terrifying and complicated. I’m already anxious about being in a dark, loud room full of drunk strangers – I’m expected to move in a rhythmic manner as well?! This entire plan torments me. I asked Twitter what I’m supposed to wear to a clubbing, and was told I need something called a “jet skirt” – I assumed this was a skirt with airplanes on it (which I don’t have, but could make!); but noooooooooo. According to Corinna, it’s “skirt so short you can see the landing strip” .. WHAT THE HELL! WHY IS THIS SO SCARY??!

You know, I am awfully bad at distracting myself – I started to write a blog post to get my mind off some TOP SECRET GOING-ONS that have me stressed out to the point of a stomach ache and no more finger nails, but then I go and write about how stressed out I am about this Friday night. This? Not soothing. I am MADE OF WORRY.

It’s a good thing I love Shan, or I would skip her stag on account of being terrified to the point of incontinence. In fact, would that help? I will totally pee myself if it will help.

What the hell am I going to wear?

Does anyone have an Ambien I can borrow? Oh wait, that’s for sleeping. How about Xanax? That’s for anxiety, right? I am about as good at drugs as I am at clubs.

Kif, I have made it with a woman another bag. Inform the men!

i did not make the robot.

It’s a slightly modified version of the Osoberry Bag, by Katie of Foxflat – I made the bag two inches less wide than the pattern calls for, made two pockets out of the one giant inner pocket, then added snaps to the outer pockets and a fabric-covered button with an elastic loop for closure.

i love pinstripes so hard.

I actually own the cookbook that inspired Katie’s hand-drawn recipe for the bag – I bought it at a used bookstore a million years ago because I liked the drawings. I’ve never made anything from it, because I am not one of those whale-kissing Dukakis-hugging moon maidens. Or, for that matter, a vegan – I just like neat books.

the bag folds over and inside is FANCY TIMES

The inside of the bag is lined with this ridiculously pretty satin stuff I found on Thursday night, and the outside is a grey pinstriped suit material. I wanted to make a bag similar to one I bought at the first Got Craft from Smeeta – I still use it from time to time, but I’m slightly paranoid when I do because it has no closure and my things have fallen out before. So, I made my own now that I am a MASTER SEWIST and all.

pretty!

In total, I think I spent around 6 hours on the bag. I started last night around 7 but had to stop just after ten due to the noise I was making, then finished up this morning. Not bad for a weekend project, and it makes me feel a lot better about my newfound sewing skills after the disastrous skirt on Thursday. I MIGHT start Skirt 2.0 tonight, if I’m feeling brave .. but right now, I am going to eat a food and admire my work.

On Thursday night I was feeling especially ambitious, so I tried to make a skirt. I failed rather spectacularly for a number of reasons; the biggest of them being math: I added extra numbers onto the end of a calculation, which made me a skirt that could have fit four of me. I tried to fix it by making an elastic waistband, but I a) bought the wrong kind and wrong width of elastic, b) went the opposite direction in terms of numbers and cut too many OFF, and c) hadn’t made the skirt long enough to accommodate a folded waistband. I got extremely creative at this point and MADE a casing by sewing a band of scrap all along the top – it would have worked and been wearable (as long as there was no wind and I wore a shirt long enough to hide my messy fixes), if not for problems A and B above. End result: I have a skirt, but it is both too short and too small and none too straight, either. Disappointing, but I will soldier onward – the material can be salvaged for POCKETS, and I’m trying to try the skirt again tonight but maybe this time pay more attention to my numbers.

I still have an issue with length due to the width of the fabric, so I’ve been rummaging through the clothes in the donation pile. I don’t have suitable fabric for a lining and the material is too sheer to wear on its own, so I think I’m going to attempt some sort of base layer out of an upcycled dress. It can’t hurt, right? I tend to look kind of weird most of the time anyway, so no one will bat an eye if I show up in public with wonky hems and scotch-taped seams. I WILL conquer the art of making clothing – I spent a zillion dollars on awesome fabric this week, and I want to make wondrous things out of it all (and I kind of have to, since I’m officially Not Allowed (self-imposed) to buy any more fabric until I use up what I have). CRAFTING! IT IS FUN even though it fucking kills my shoulder!

Sewing is for night times, though. This gorgeous sunny Saturday afternoon calls for a scooter ride!

Put on some tea and grease up the Queen; I’m coming back.

DONG DONG DONG

Vacation time has been approved, flights have been booked, and a VRBO rented for two weeks: we’re going to London. This September is our Ten Slash Fifteen (!?!?); married for 10 and together for 15. Those are nice round numbers, so we’re going to take the last of my severance and go on a crazy London adventure. I can’t wait – I loved London when I was there with Heather and Renee, but our trip was so short. Ed’s never been, and I’m hopping around with anticipation (and a full bladder) at the thought of exploring with him and having enough time to do things thoroughly. I was drooling at these awesome pictures of London at night when I realized that we were so busy trying to cram everything into four days that we wore ourselves out – we didn’t DO London at night, at all. This time? There will be SO MUCH NIGHT.

I am so, so excited. Is it September yet?

LONDON! And maybe Ireland this time!

YAY!

I ambushed a small child yesterday, and took her cookies (in exchange for money).

It’s Girl Guide cookie season, and they’re selling the GOOD cookies (not the chocolate mint horrors). In Canada we only get two kinds of cookies – the awesome sandwich ones, and the ones that suck (unlike you Americans who have untold numbers of fabled deliciousness that we can only imagine and get confused with savoury Indian pocket snacks every time) – so when the good cookies come around, it’s time to celebrate.

Unfortunately, those of us who are not “yummy mummies” (more on that later) do not have access to small children in Girl Guides who want to sell cookies to us. We dried-up barren skanks (who don’t deserve to be called women) aren’t blessed with the preciousness of fertility and sacred bonds; keeping us from fulfilling our purpose here on earth – and as punishment, no cookies. We have to go elsewhere for our fix (much like we do to scratch our slut itches): dark alleys and street corners (familiar grounds to us prostitutes on birth control); office buildings and supermarket parking lots.

I don’t know how this post about cookies turned into an angry feminist rant, but these things happen sometimes.

Back to the cookies. I’ve been trying to get my hands on some for weeks; ever since Heather and I saw them being sold on corner of Hastings and Nanaimo. We were driving past and didn’t think it a good idea to entice a small child to our car by holding money out of the window, so we drove off without cookies but with a powerful hunger for expensive treats that we could easily find on a supermarket shelf for half the price but without the Girl Guide logo stamped into them. I’ve kept an eye out, but haven’t seen anyone selling cookies .. until yesterday.

I was downtown for an appointment and on my way to meet Ed when a small girl joined me at the elevator. She was carrying two cases of Girl Guide cookies; the siren song of which is so powerful that it overthrew my natural tendency to avoid children at all costs. I asked if the cookies were all for her, or if she was selling them – and like magic, a parent appeared and said they were selling them. Hooray! I even had cash on me, so I happily forked over $10 for two boxes of deliciousness and went on my merry way. Success! And the small child was not at all traumatized by my obvious baby-eating ways! It’s a win for everyone involved.

So hey, what the fuck is up with referring to yourself or others as a “yummy mummy” ? I get that you may want to feel attractive after giving birth (see, I’m getting better – I didn’t say “pooping out a child” or “becoming a human feed bag”), but something about the phrase “yummy mummy” just squicks me out. I don’t like how the words sound together, and it’s just the whole damn thing – it’s .. like .. trying to be sexy by infantilizing it, which clashes with the very idea of being sexy in the first place. It’s icky. Unless, of course, by “yummy” you don’t mean “damn I am a hot piece of ass with this giant diaper bag and baby wipes tucked into my bra” but “I am a delicious meal”, which could be taken in several different ways (most of them hilarious).

Also – and here’s the big thing – the dictionary definition of “mummy” is:

1. the dead body of a human being or animal preserved by the ancient Egyptian process or some similar method of embalming
2. a dead body dried and preserved by nature
3. a withered or shrunken living being
4. a dry, shriveled fruit, tuber, or other plant organ, resulting from any of several fungous diseases

SO SEXY

couldn't you just eat her up?

Nothing makes a girl book a haircut faster than looking in the mirror and seeing Gowan staring back at you.

I made my hood exactly for situations like this – gross and rainy, no jacket, no umbrella. Was I smart enough to actually bring it with me today? Of course not – between my car and the front door of the space station, I got soaked and now my hair is fluffy. It looks about as awesome as you might expect (ie: not at all), which is getting in the way of my world domination. No one takes a leader with fluffy hair seriously.

I couldn’t decide which belt to wear this morning, so I wore three of them. I am not used to belts – they exist to hold up pants, and I do not wear pants. I added them to my dress to break up the never-ending sea of chambray, which worked quite well .. and if one belt was good, three belts could only be MORE GOOD. Look for me downtown this afternoon; I’ll be the one who looks more good (from the neck down).

In other news, why you have to go and make things so complicated? I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else; gets me frustrated.

Yeah, it’s THAT kind of Tuesday. Strap yourself in, kids.

Now that I’ve showered and successfully integrated myself into society, I can show off the hood I made:

from the side i am not at all a creepy goth elf

It’s reversible; the other side has the same mushrooms as the tote bag I made.

yes i am wearing my hood in space

Fun times. Fun, messy times. I may never get all the thread leavings out of my carpet, but I am okay with that.

After work today, I have to go pick up our Wedding Clothes. We’re both in the wedding party, and our clothes needed fixing: Ed’s pants had to be hemmed, and because I am always made of difficult, my dress both had to have the zipper replaced (it came broken) and to be let out in the hips a little (I am hippy). The alterations didn’t cost too much, but I’m sad I can’t just wear my dress straight out of the bag like Miranda and Kris can. Hell, even if I didn’t need additional hip room I’d require the alteration: broken zipper is not good times, and it gave me a mighty complex that we completely fucked up my nipple span measurement and the dress didn’t fit. Thankfully, the dress fits fine .. it could just be a little less tight in the hips, have a zipper that wasn’t fucked up, and maybe have less of a cummerbund; something specific to me because I am two feet tall with no torso. I mean, if we’re wishfully thinking, and all.

I have SO MANY THINGS going on that I can’t write about, and it’s giving me mega marbles.

Instead, here is the Glitter Crow:

caw.

I may have forgotten Earth Hour (sorry, planet – I’ll make it up to you tonight), but I have CONQUERED THE UNIVERSE (if by “universe” you mean “threading my sewing machine”, which I clearly do).

It was determined that yesterday was to be DDD-Day: Deacon’s Corner for brunch, Cartems for Donuts, and Dressew for supplies. Gillian couldn’t join Heather and I for the afternoon of sewing, but we had a good morning before parting ways – then Heather and I took over Sparta and crafted up the world. She made most of an awesome dress, and I made this hood and an awesome purse:

sewing !!

There’s even a goddamn pocket:

pocket will HOLD THINGS!

If that wasn’t enough, today I decided to do some BUNTING:

a-bunting we will go

YAY! SEWING!

I *think* I may have overcome my fear of threading, too – Heather showed me last night, and today I actually changed the thread out four times as I sewed up things requiring different colours. I’m dying to make some skirts already, but I’m not quite ready to tackle things that don’t go on my head or shoulder -sewing recipes scare me. They’re full of words and measurements and instructions that I don’t understand at all (which bothers me, because instructions are sort of my thing), so I need to have someone on hand to translate “pinch one bottom corner so that the side seam and bottom seam touch on the inside of the bag. The corner will form a triangle. Make sure the side and bottom seams line up on the inside. Mark 2 1⁄2” from the tip of the triangle to form the other two sides of the triangle” into regular words, because what the fuck.

I like making things!

Domesticity will continue well into the night: I’m making thai food. Hooray!

When I conquer skirts, my wardrobe is going to be SO MUCH MORE RIDICULOUS.

Yessssssssssssssssssss.

If my blog was a child, it would have some pretty serious resentment towards me and my blasé remembrance of significant dates. It would also likely be pestering me for a cell phone, want (or if it took after me, need) a training bra, and require a PG-13 version of “the talk” which I completely wouldn’t know how to deliver without using finger puppets and screaming “NEVER GO A2M” over and over again which would probably be incredibly traumatic. So, it’s good for everyone that my blog is NOT a child, but rather just a personal website that I’ve now been writing on for 11 years.

Honestly, this past year has been a big struggle and it often felt like I was limping towards some unknown finish line somewhere in front of me. I don’t know what the future holds for me or for Delicious Juice Dot Com, but I mightily appreciate every one of you who’ve taken the time to read my words over the past 11 years. You guys are awesome; I’m just some idiot with an internet connection and a whole lot of cleavage.

Thanks for being out there, y’all.

when my blog turns 15, i'm making it get a damn job