Capes, the Completing Of
I'm leaving for a week on vacation in half an hour. Grr. Stupid vacation. I never get to sleep properly while on vacation. *drowns in mosquitos*
Curse my expensive habits! I'm going to go broke and live on the streets, but I'll be well dressed. Grr. Patterns alone are adding up to $54.50--imagine the FABRIC costs!
Oh, my naive 15-year-old self, thinking that this might be possible, surfing people's dress diaries that never mentioned expenses... I so need to work at a fabric store. Employee discounts. Hooray.
But I still feel good, 'cause I finished my cape a few hours ago. Mmm, pretty purple velvet... It feels so luxurious. Took about six hours for the neck alone (had to handstitch the neck; I don't trust my machine to not break on 7 layers of fabric), but so, SO worth it.
Unfortunately, finishing means I have no more project, and that is bad. Project good. Project makes life interesting.
*buys patterns, because can't draft own*
*takes drafting lessons*
By the way, has anybody else noticed how many seamstresses have cats? I might just be noticing the cat owners more, but a whole lot of the costumers that I've met recently have cats.
Huh.
On a different subject, anybody like this? Hate it? Anything?
Title: Zipper
Rating: Oh... MWS, for fade-to-black.
I must have seen that pair of hips walk towards me a thousand times,
This was inspired both by the Poe song Hey Pretty and by a font called Zipper. It's a cool font; got it off FontFreak. If anyone wants to check it out.
It was the pants that got me. The sway of denim on curvy hips, the red-and-yellow stitching, the less-than-subtle replacement of the ordinary belt loops with ones of sateen.
The red zipper.
That zipper had been put there to be noticed. I must have seen that pair of hips walk towards me a thousand times, but when the bright colored belt loops flashed I had to look, and I couldn't help but stare at the zipper. It was made to be stared at. And I was never one to deny an object its destiny.
She asked me what I was looking at. I told her, “Your belt loops are... flashy,” in that nasty tone I had mastered in my numerous battles against my big sister. It said, “You're an idiot. Whatever I am commenting upon should be incinerated immediately. Get out of my sight you worm of a creature.”
I meant: “Your zipper.”
I noticed those same hips again, running across a busy street in black jeans and a neon green belt. I looked for the zipper on purpose this time: Purple as a good ripe plum, almost too dark to see against the black. I saw a man so dark his bald head reflected that color, in line at the bank, once. I have never seen that shade again.
“Staring again?” she asked me, and this time, her buckle (an ordinary one) was my excuse.
“It flashed in my eyes,” is what I said, and her eyebrows raised.
“Right.”
The next time I saw her, I noticed her spine first, and the black zipper running down the back. The dress was white and high-necked and tight, but I never noticed that; I saw the zipper head moving down... down... inches of her neck exposed, until her partner noticed and zipped her back up.
“Wouldn't want this pretty thing falling off here,” they said.
I couldn't hear her laughter over the music.
But I could almost hear the scratchy sound as her zipper began its decent once again.
The last time, I had the head of a pink zipper in my fingers, full attention concentrated on the clicks as each latch opened, the sides of pseudo corset top sliding apart as I pulled. Her purrs a melody to the beat of the zipper-clicks, my breath the harmony, I trailed a finger where the zipper had been, and felt her shiver.
“I knew you weren't staring at my belt loops,” she said.
I chuckled, and reached for the zipper on her skirt.
Curse my expensive habits! I'm going to go broke and live on the streets, but I'll be well dressed. Grr. Patterns alone are adding up to $54.50--imagine the FABRIC costs!
Oh, my naive 15-year-old self, thinking that this might be possible, surfing people's dress diaries that never mentioned expenses... I so need to work at a fabric store. Employee discounts. Hooray.
But I still feel good, 'cause I finished my cape a few hours ago. Mmm, pretty purple velvet... It feels so luxurious. Took about six hours for the neck alone (had to handstitch the neck; I don't trust my machine to not break on 7 layers of fabric), but so, SO worth it.
Unfortunately, finishing means I have no more project, and that is bad. Project good. Project makes life interesting.
*buys patterns, because can't draft own*
*takes drafting lessons*
By the way, has anybody else noticed how many seamstresses have cats? I might just be noticing the cat owners more, but a whole lot of the costumers that I've met recently have cats.
Huh.
On a different subject, anybody like this? Hate it? Anything?
Title: Zipper
Rating: Oh... MWS, for fade-to-black.
I must have seen that pair of hips walk towards me a thousand times,
This was inspired both by the Poe song Hey Pretty and by a font called Zipper. It's a cool font; got it off FontFreak. If anyone wants to check it out.
It was the pants that got me. The sway of denim on curvy hips, the red-and-yellow stitching, the less-than-subtle replacement of the ordinary belt loops with ones of sateen.
The red zipper.
That zipper had been put there to be noticed. I must have seen that pair of hips walk towards me a thousand times, but when the bright colored belt loops flashed I had to look, and I couldn't help but stare at the zipper. It was made to be stared at. And I was never one to deny an object its destiny.
She asked me what I was looking at. I told her, “Your belt loops are... flashy,” in that nasty tone I had mastered in my numerous battles against my big sister. It said, “You're an idiot. Whatever I am commenting upon should be incinerated immediately. Get out of my sight you worm of a creature.”
I meant: “Your zipper.”
I noticed those same hips again, running across a busy street in black jeans and a neon green belt. I looked for the zipper on purpose this time: Purple as a good ripe plum, almost too dark to see against the black. I saw a man so dark his bald head reflected that color, in line at the bank, once. I have never seen that shade again.
“Staring again?” she asked me, and this time, her buckle (an ordinary one) was my excuse.
“It flashed in my eyes,” is what I said, and her eyebrows raised.
“Right.”
The next time I saw her, I noticed her spine first, and the black zipper running down the back. The dress was white and high-necked and tight, but I never noticed that; I saw the zipper head moving down... down... inches of her neck exposed, until her partner noticed and zipped her back up.
“Wouldn't want this pretty thing falling off here,” they said.
I couldn't hear her laughter over the music.
But I could almost hear the scratchy sound as her zipper began its decent once again.
The last time, I had the head of a pink zipper in my fingers, full attention concentrated on the clicks as each latch opened, the sides of pseudo corset top sliding apart as I pulled. Her purrs a melody to the beat of the zipper-clicks, my breath the harmony, I trailed a finger where the zipper had been, and felt her shiver.
“I knew you weren't staring at my belt loops,” she said.
I chuckled, and reached for the zipper on her skirt.