First Birchbox!

My very first Birchbox came today. Well, it probably came many days ago, but we got the mail from the post office today, which happens maybe twice a month, so I got my first Birchbox, all my bills, and a package from Aerie, too.

It looked fancy. I mean, that box is PRETTY.

And it turns out, that wasn't even the real box. Somebody's getting a hand-knitted baby sweater in this fancy box. I mean, it is even LINED with pretty striped paper. This is a fancy box, meant for fancy things.

And inside, it was even more fancy. There was a little postcard announcing that it is March and that Spring things are contained within the box.

And on the other side, there was a list of everything inside the box PLUS instructions on how to use everything! That is good because I am clueless. And then I opened the tissue paper and saw...

Pretty things! There was TEA from Mighty Leaf (Organic Earl Grey, Chamomile, and Green Tea Tropical) and the pillow box has a piece of Ghirardelli Cherry Tango Square (yummy chocolate). Tea and chocolate being the fastest way to reach my heart.

There was also Agave Healing Oil Treatment, Gilchrist & Soames London Collection Body Lotion, Supergoop! City Sunscreen Serum. PLUS, there was a tiny theBalm How 'Bout Them Apples Cheek & Lip Cream sample in "Pie." It's a lovely shade that seems to work well with my incredibly pale skin.

The Gilchrist & Soames lotion has a lovely scent that I am miraculously not allergic to, which is awesome.

Learning to Sew, Part Four: It Doesn't Have to Be Pretty

I had some free time on Sunday afternoon, so I spent some quality time with the sewing machine again.

I'm discovering that there's a trick to cutting out fabric. A trick I have yet to learn. Or, well, I learned it, but only after I cut out the fabric for my second drawstring bag. Here it is: Measure out what you need. Say, 17" length. When you've measured out your 17", put your ruler down so that it covers the part of the fabric you want to use. This leaves the waste fabric uncovered by the ruler, so if your rotary cutter doesn't stay as close to the ruler as you want, you're not messing up the good fabric, you're messing up what would have been scrap anyway.

photo by designsbykari via Flickr, modified by me

Seems simple, but it took me two completed projects to figure it out. Imagine that, using the ruler to protect the fabric you want to use for your project! Shocking.

Anyway. I cut out the fabric for bag #2, badly because of the rotary cutter thing and also because I didn't pay much attention to the numbers on my mat and therefore cut everything 1" shorter than I ought to have. This made an accidentally sized-down pattern, but since it was a bag, it did not matter.

When my pieces were cut out, I sat down at the machine (which Mum had fixed in about five seconds). And then I began to sew.

I quickly discovered that there is a right direction to put pins in fabric and a wrong direction to put pins in fabric. The wrong direction is when the head of the pin is facing the machine and not you. Why is that wrong? Because if the pin is facing the sewing machine, and you sew up to the pin, you'll have a heck of a time removing the pin without first lifting the needle and the foot. Also you stab yourself. But you would have done that anyway. I certainly did.

It's also important to not remove the pins too soon. And to make sure you're smoothing the fabric so that it doesn't bunch. And that you make sure you're sewing in a straight line by guiding your fabric as it goes into the machine.

Do you want to guess how many of those things I actually did?

Another important tip: Did you know that you can turn a sharp corner without stopping, lifting the needle and foot, rotating the project, lowering the foot and needle again, and then continuing? You CAN. All you have to do is lift the FOOT and leave the needle in place. That gives you a SHARP corner.*

And if you're me, and you decide you can make a curve instead of a corner, it is a good idea to plot out the curve and go slowly so you have two curved edges that are the same. Otherwise, you have a Franken-bag, and it is asymmetrical and bizarre. But that's fine.

When I was finished sewing the edges and making the French seams, I sewed around the top edge. I tried to do this in a continuous line. That did not work so well. The back-stitched part of that edge looks more like a "z" than a line. I am calling this an artistic choice.

I finished the first bag and then went back to the one I'd hand-sewed. I then stitched over everything with the machine so I could have more practice with the machine.

Here is a sucky picture of both bags. And my laptop. This is visual evidence that bags were sewn.



My next project is an apron. The pieces have been cut (with help, so they're the proper size and shape), and sewing will commence soon. If I'm lucky, the apron will look like an apron and be usable. That's all I can hope for at this point.

* By "sharp" I mean you find a way to accidentally stab yourself with a straight pin again. Because you will.

Learning to Sew, Part Three: Ignoring the Problem

An important part of sewing things is ignoring the sewing machine altogether. I'm proud to report that I am highly advanced in this particular facet of sewing.

Learning to Sew, Part Two: Assessing the Situation

Yesterday, I looked at the sewing machine again and again as I walked past it. I must have looked at that thing 20 times. Maybe more. PROBABLY more.

It just sat there, probably still slightly disassembled. It did not put itself back together.

I finished hand-sewing the French seam while watching a deplorable show I found on Netflix called Breaking Amish. I made it through half of one episode.*

Now I have to sew along the top to finish off the tube that the cord will go through, and the drawstring bag will be finished. Then I will iron it and stare at it for a while. Then I will move on with life. Hopefully to this project, which I have fabric for already. I have washed said fabric, and I have the thread. I have to cut it out and stitch it together, and I think I can do that tonight. We'll see.

Then I will have a snazzy apron to wear while I am making this for dinner, sometime this weekend. Probably Sunday. Maybe earlier.

That apron will never get done fast enough for me to wear it while making that. Never.

You can't hear it, but I am sighing loudly.

* I could not believe it. Here are young people, curious about the outside world, encouraged by TV producers to go off and experience life, all while all parties involved mean that there is no way any of them can ever go home again. Is the TV show going to fund an education, help them find work outside of their community, give them the counseling they'll need after everyone who has ever loved them suddenly refuses to see or speak to them? No. It is an awful show.

Learning to Sew, Part One: Getting to Know Your Sewing Machine

Fabric in hand, I approached the machine. It sat in a cabinet, nestled in a cocoon of pattern bits and fabric scraps. I carefully reached out and picked it up by the handle, gingerly moving it to my table. I plugged in its foot. I clicked on its power switch.

Its light flashed on, illuminating the surface of the antique Singer sewing table. It seemed to stare at me, and I stared back.

I had a small drawstring bag. I had begun sewing the bag by hand. I thought I would finish the French seams on the machine, because the hand-sewing needle had stabbed me in the finger that morning. I had not forgiven the needle. I still have not forgiven the needle.

It was threaded already, with the wrong color. I needed to wind the bobbin. First, the bobbin would not turn. Then I convinced it to wind, but it began winding madly and unevenly. This happened two more times, before Mum came around the corner, explained that the bobbin did not go up and down, and showed me how to guide the thread myself.

That worked.

It had been 45 minutes at the machine before I succeeded in winding the bobbin and Mum threaded the machine. Don't you judge me. She took pity on me and knew that I would never accomplish anything without her help. She put the bobbin in the bottom drawer-ish place. I advanced the needle and it picked up the thread from the bobbin. I advanced the needle WRONG, but it still caught the thread. This was victory.

I put fabric under the foot and lowered the needle (correctly). I then stitched a nice straight line right down the side of the bag, exactly where I wanted it to go.

This was some crazy kind of victory. 

I lifted the foot, pulled the fabric out a bit and cut the thread. Then I flipped over the bag. And it looked like an explosion had happened, an explosion of thread. It looked like this:

photo Stacy at Fresh Stitches

That wasn't what it was supposed to look like. I showed Mum. She said it was bobbin tension. I watched many bobbin-tension YouTube videos. Many. They mostly said what Mum said: to slightly change the tension, sew, and see what happened.

The same thing happened. Twice.

That was when I decided to take out my thread and leave. I opened the drawer-ish place to retrieve the bobbin. I wanted my thread back. When I opened the door, a piece fell out. It was a ring-ish piece.

And then I took out the bobbin, and another piece came out, too.

These are the pieces.

I examined both parts. They are not broken. Neither is the area they came from. It is possible that the pieces were never in their respective places properly, causing the problem above. What this meant to me was that my night of sewing was over. Nothing was accomplished, unless dis-assembly counts as an accomplishment. (It doesn't.)

My Mother and the Reason I Can't Use a Sewing Machine

When I was a child, my mother liked to sew. She sewed clothes for us, then dolls and and other crafty rustic things that she sold. She made us all manner of stuffed animals, and quilts, and curtains and pillows. She could sew anything.

We were small then, and, naturally, Mum wanted to prevent us from using the sewing machine to accidentally kill ourselves. That was a real possibility, because The Brother had a thing for pressing buttons and turning knobs on the stereo. The Brother almost deafened himself permanently with the stereo, and Mum was certain her sewing machine was next on his radar, especially after the stereo was removed from the home due to mechanical failure that may or may not have resulted from a toddler cranking up the volume to the maximum level, then turning on the radio.

Mum's sewing was dangerous, mostly because there were always escaped straight pins, and I have a clear memory of giving The Brother a ride on my back and putting a hand down on the ground only to have a straight pin enter my palm, bend, and curve under the skin in a half-circle. I also have a clear memory of pulling out the pin.

Mum didn't want us messing with the sewing machine. She wanted us to leave it be. When we asked why, she would tell us a story. A story about what could go wrong when sewing machines attack.

The story takes place when my mother was in high school. Mum had long blonde hair she could sit on, and wore platforms so often everyone thought she was four to five inches taller than she really was. And she was in home economics class. Back then, according to Mum, you were actually taught how to sew actual things. And by that, she means you had to sew things AND finish them AND then you had to turn them in so the teacher could grade them. It wasn't like my home economics class, in which all we did was fill out worksheets and bake things.

Mum was staying after school to work on a project. So was her friend, Debbie Wampler. Debbie, according to Mum, was a blast. Mum loved her. Debbie was sewing something. Debbie was not as familiar with sewing as my mum. Either that, or she was just really distracted, because the next thing my mum knew was that Debbie had used the sewing machine to effectively stitch over and THROUGH HER HAND.

"How did you get the thread OUT?" I would ask, each time my mother told the story.

The answer involves my mother and a seam ripper. Also maybe scissors.

Debbie was fine. Debbie finished her project and moved on with her life. She went to college, married someone, maybe had kids, maybe lives in a house or maybe an apartment. Probably she is well-adjusted and never has a panic attack when she hears a sewing machine. Debbie is okay.

I am not.

This is because the sewing machine is terrifying. The sewing machine contains maybe a bad fairy, maybe pure evil, probably even Satan. The sewing machine is waiting for you to touch it, so that it can kill you. The sewing machine knows you're afraid of it, and it wants you to feel that way. It wants you to know it knows you're afraid.

I don't know if it's the noise or the way it moves the fabric forward on its own or the way it LOOKS at you, knowing you suck and know nothing about what you're doing. Whatever it is, the sewing machine is the wrongest thing about crafting, and it keeps me from having skirts and dresses that fit me by lurking there, waiting for me to approach it, just so that it can scare me away.

I have purchased so much fabric. I have used next to none of it. This is all because the sewing machine is a thing of terror. I have tried many times. All of those attempts end in fear, panic, tears. But I am trying again. I am making a drawstring bag. First I am making the bag by hand. Then, I am making a second bag, using the sewing machine, because I will know the pattern and the construction of the bag well enough not to be confused. I will know I can make the bag one way, and, perhaps, I will believe I can make it another way.

If I don't come back, it was the sewing machine.

You will find me in the living room, curled up on the ground with one arm raised up above my head, drained bloodless, wrapped around and inside the mechanics of the sewing machine. There will be straight pins. There will be thread and maybe it will have wound itself into a makeshift rope, used to draw me closer to the mechanical monster.

The sewing machine will sit quietly, motionlessly. It will look much as it did before, though its hideous maw and needle teeth will be stained with my blood. You will think that it was an accident. But it was not. The sewing machine saw its opening and took it. Remember me, and tell your children of it. Tell your children of Debbie Wampler. Tell your children my name. Tell your children that the sewing machine is hungry, and fabric does not sate its lust for blood and flesh.

Laura and Emily Go to Comic Con

Emily and I with Tiny Batman

I suppose I should update all of you about Indianapolis Comic Con, which was the whole reason I made the Marauder's Map shirt in the first place. It was...an experience.

Let me preface this by saying, I have no idea what a con is supposed to be like. I had never been to one before, nor had I spoken in depth with anyone who had. All I knew was that it was a kind of nerdy nirvana, a place where fandoms collide, and that it might be okay to be very excited about Harry Potter, the Avengers, and Welcome to Night Vale there. That assumption was correct.

The con also was incredibly, incredibly crowded. When my friend Emily and I arrived, we discovered hordes of people, some of them dressed normally, some of them looking as if they had raided the shelves of the local Hot Topic (perhaps for a costume, perhaps for everyday wear--we could not tell), and a select few appearing as though they had put the kind of work into their costumes that put me (and the 20+ hours I slaved over the Marauder's Map shirt) to shame. Others were the "cosplay girls" who horrify Jennifer and I, who wear the most revealing, trashy outfits possible in order to be slutty in public without being accused of selling anything. There were lots of grown men and women dressed as My Little Ponies. The Brother said it was more socially acceptable for women to dress as My Little Ponies than for men. I beg to differ.

Some of those costumes were amazing. The Indianapolis Star was there taking pictures. You should really take a look. Someone came as a Big Daddy from Bioshock, and his costume was so awesome...you have to see it.

But more than anything, there were people. So. Many. People.

I later discovered that the reason for this was that the convention center could, in the area the con was being held, hold 6,000 people comfortably. The people planning the con expected 10,000 over the entire weekend. On Saturday, there were 15,000 people who bought tickets. This is not counting the people who showed up and did not buy tickets, including the many, many people who waited in line for hours and were turned away at the door because the room was too full for more people to come in. I'm sure there were well over 15,000 people there. It was...uncomfortable. The entire thing had sold out by 3:00 PM, which was just after we'd left due to the insane crowds.

Emily and I with stormtroopers from Star Wars Indiana

Imagine footage of a festival, or New Year's Eve in Time's Square, or that awesome colored chalk festival in Asia, or maybe a subway during rush hour. Add about a thousand people. Maybe 2000. Then you have what it was like at Indianapolis Comic Con. When I walked into that room, I was not claustrophobic. When I left, that had changed. If one person had panicked in that convention center, we would have all been trampled to death. If there had been a fire--let's not think about what would have happened then.

But the whole experience was so different and new, I would not have traded it. I would have just shown up very early, preferably with a large security escort. I'm wondering if the whole thing will take over the convention center completely next year, so that there will be plenty of space. I hope.

I found, overall, most of the exhibits were genuinely dedicated to comics and only comics. I had expected more of a range. There was one booth that had costume supplies for cosplay, but that was all we saw that wasn't comics and prints of comic book art. Have any of you been to a comic con before? Is it normal for the exhibitors to only be comics?