Anyone else love rayon jersey? Anyone else hate rayon jersey? Me too, on both, and I’ve got evidence in support of each.
(I think we all can agree on this much: The best souvenirs are sewing souvenirs.)
I’ve been snarfing up Seamwork Magazine, Colette Patterns’ new project, with utter delight since the day it came out. Every month I get excited about the next release (only 14 more days, guys!). And yet the first pattern I’ve made was from the May issue — the Adelaide dress.
I realize this is the second off-white tank dress I’ve made this summer, but in truth, these dresses are so different that there’s no comparison.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from innumerable wardrobe analyses and all that, it’s that I. Am. Boring. That’s OK. My inner self has come to peace with it.
Don’t try to fight it, my inner self says. Your colorful blouses and shiny dresses will only get worn so often, especially when all those navy and ivory and gray and beige fabrics are sitting in your stash, and furthermore, your not-terribly-well-fitting navy linen dress will get work as soon as it’s out of the wash.
It’s been awhile since I posted, but I know you’ll understand why — it’s summer. Either you’re wasting your time luxuriating in the sunshine, or you’re wasting your time panting in the shade of the nearest tree, wishing for a hint of a breeze, something, anything. Poring over a computer screen seems like something you should save for winter, along with hot baths, mugs of tea and wool fabric.
Wool is definitely a bad word right now. Lace, on the other hand…
Fit was a huge part of why I wanted to learn to sew. (And polyester. God, the polyester.) I was tired of getting pissed off while shopping because entire genres of clothing were off limits.
Of all the reasons I’m proud of my handmade garments, the fact that they fit is probably the most important thing. But I began thinking: Wouldn’t it be an interesting exercise to try to fit a garment to someone else?
So I sent an email blast to some lady friends with a proposal: Give me some of your time — enough for me to take measurements and do fittings — and I’ll give you a free skirt.
I know it’s not exactly encouraged, but back at the end of April, I reeeeeally wanted to make up a garment, lickety-split, to wear for Me-Made May.
So DUH, I knew exactly what to do.
I’ll tell you the moral of this story in advance: I’m an idiot.
But hey, an idiot with a really cute top, eh?
(Please, God, don’t let high-low hems go out of style now that I’ve finally jumped on board. Cause you know I’ll wear this anyway.)
The phrase TNT gets thrown around a lot — including by me, often erroneously — but this is one case where it really applies. Going through the boring part of fitting has paid off with, essentially, a sloper for a sleeveless bodice. I can play around with variations (like wrap-back and scoop-back) without worrying about making adjustments for my narrow back or deep armscye or whatever.
So when I need a quick win in the sewing category to make myself feel better about a recent failure, I went straight to Old Faithful. Because sometimes you just need a f–king sundress.
I had high hopes, guys, SUCH high hopes for this dress.
It was going to kickstart years of sewing vintage patterns. It was going to add some unique flavor to my wardrobe without detracting from my personal style. It was going to live in that sweet spot between effortless-casual and pulled-together-work-appropriate.
Or, you know, not!
I haven’t really posted about THIS kind of project before; my posts tend to be about my favorite makes, the success stories. But that’s not really a realistic portrayal of sewing, is it?
So here we go: I made this dress, and I really don’t like it. Let’s punctuate that with many, many GIFs of Liz Lemon, even though I haven’t watched “30 Rock” in ages and can’t remember where they all come from.