Project Interruptus
So I've been stitching away on my big fat bustle dress. Bodice went together perfectly, wow, just like I remember it. Now it's time for sleeves!
Sleeves are not generally a problem for me - as long as I get them lined up on the grain, it's usually one pass and they're in. So, I start work on these sleeves. La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila? No, not voila. I decide I hate the height on the sleeve head - way too high. So I pull the sleeve off, then measure and trim the sleeve head down.
La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila? Grumble, grumble, grumble. Gathers are wonky. So I pull the sleeve off. La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila?
Eight times. I set and reset that stinking sleeve eight times, and it is still an abomination! What to do,what to do? Ahh! I know: Exile! To the pile of shame with you! When I can stand to look upon its lovely overembroidered piquet cotton again, I will cut a new set of sleeves and see if it can be redeemed. But right now?
This bodice is dead to me.
P.S. My hatred of the Perfect Pleater knows no bounds. I hate it with the heat of many suns, and the depth of the Marianas Trench. Only the sky above is vast enough to contain my burning rage, but only just.
Sleeves are not generally a problem for me - as long as I get them lined up on the grain, it's usually one pass and they're in. So, I start work on these sleeves. La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila? No, not voila. I decide I hate the height on the sleeve head - way too high. So I pull the sleeve off, then measure and trim the sleeve head down.
La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila? Grumble, grumble, grumble. Gathers are wonky. So I pull the sleeve off. La-la-la, gather the sleeve head, la-la-la baste in place. Et voila?
Eight times. I set and reset that stinking sleeve eight times, and it is still an abomination! What to do,what to do? Ahh! I know: Exile! To the pile of shame with you! When I can stand to look upon its lovely overembroidered piquet cotton again, I will cut a new set of sleeves and see if it can be redeemed. But right now?
This bodice is dead to me.
P.S. My hatred of the Perfect Pleater knows no bounds. I hate it with the heat of many suns, and the depth of the Marianas Trench. Only the sky above is vast enough to contain my burning rage, but only just.