The Blue Gardenia learns to sow her blossoms

I will contain my gratitude no longer. I won't. I won't. I won't.

I am taking a moment from teaching His Bertness to make chili to issue a most heartfelt thank you to a few folks. I am. So, listen up.

First up: Carolyn Norman, whose blog Dairy of a Sewing Fanatic has long been a favorite. Thank you so very much, Carolyn, for the post about The Blue Gardenia. It has brought so many new customers, and I hope all will join our roster of regulars.

Ditto to Gretchen, of Gertie's New Blog for Better Sewing. Her blog is a new addiction, and for all of you out there: I want that book! I do. I do. I do. Namely Vogue's New Book for Better Sewing.

And I am also ever so pleased and grateful that Oliver + S listed The Blue Gardenia as something that should always be hanging above everyone's sewing machine. Wow! Thank you! That makes me so very happy. Yes indeedy.

Further, while this attitude of gratitude is swelling to bursting point, I'd like to thank Vicki at Yavapai Regional Medical Center, who went above and beyond to handle an insurance issue for me. Unasked. She volunteered! This week. A holiday week.

And I'd also like to thank my parents and my in-laws for being there this year. And His Bertness for learning to cook because sometimes I am just too tired to whip up tasty vittles. Love that cheerful, willing attitude, honey bunch. Yes, I do.

So. There ya go. Thank you. Thank you! THANK YOU! (Yes, my voice is  raised in appreciation.)

And just so I'll have art, how about gear for cooking chili? Simplicity 3382, Bust 42, copyright 1950, $33 at The Blue Gardenia, will have you looking as good as the chili will taste.

Oh, and thank you, Michael Buble, for covering Baby (You've Got What It Takes). Still like the Brook and Dinah version best, but your cover with Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings is not shabby. Not at all.

Gee. I feel like I should be standing behind a microphone, clad in a tight, shimmery evening gown. Vintage, of course.

So. Happy 2010, everyone. I hope it's your very best ever. Ever. Absolutely. (Until 2011 anyway.)

For that Mildred Pierce moment: Modes Royale 336

Ahhh, New Year's Eve. You have to work. A busy day. Tight end-of-year deadlines with absolutely no room for wiggling. You'll have to rush straight from the office to dinner with your honey bunch. That is the only way. But. What to wear? That is today's question. There must be something that says both business and beauty. Something. But what?

Perhaps Modes Royale 336, circa 1940s. Don't-mess-with-me shoulders. Sassy pleats. A hide-anything pocket with a button. A button!  Big enough for a lipstick, a pen and a notepad. Love it. Yep. This is the one. Perfection. Absolutely.

Shameless plug: Motor running? Our once-a-year sale starts now!

Just this once, I won't waste your time with needless words. Really. I promise. Brief. To the point. That's me at this moment. So. Intro over, here you go: It's time for The Blue Gardenia's once-a-year sale. The lowdown: Buy 3 or more items, get 33% off. Sale prices are good now, this minute, through midnight PST Thursday, January 7. All payments must be in my eager paws by January 9, 2010. As always, TBG takes American Express, Discover, Mastercard, Visa, Paypal, non-rubber checks and cold, hard cash. And you are all smart cookies, so you know to shop early for the best selection. Like now, this moment. Or this oh-so-mod, oh-so-Shrimpton Pierre Cardin number will be gone. Scurry. Hurry.

The Little Town of Horrors: An update

Light. Bright. Isn't that what this blog should be about? Isn't that what I should be? Always looking on the bright side, choosing the sunny side of the street, brightening the days of those I see with a smile, a regular Emilie Loring heroine. Oh. Oh. Oh. If only that were so.

I am here to tell you it is not. There are days, like today, when I feel like crying. When I feel like being a nagging spousal unit. Yesterday, His Bertness went officially eight months — EIGHT! – without a job. And the Great Recession has more than nipped The Blue Gardenia's sales. (See, dear readers, I respect you. I won't disrespect you by pretending sales are soaring like a maiden's skirt on a windy day. No pretense. Nada.)

I understand, though, that counting my blessings will help restore equilibrium to my mood. Here goes (and I won't bore you with all of them — I'm going to keep a few blessings private): 

We have health insurance. Yippee skippee. Not because of government intervention. I am here to tell you our letters to both our Democratic representative and our Republican senators yielded no fruit. But. Hubby's persistence did result in the restoration of our COBRA benefits. (Although we did have to pay for the months we were uninsured as well. That was a chunk plus. Practically a trunk of money, even with Obama's stimulus benefit.)

We have family support, and that is invaluable, financially and emotionally. 

I have a wonderful Pilates instructor, who donates time to those with MS. Suzanne Fisher, you are a peach.

So. There ya go. Just a few. I'm feeling better already. Although I still want to blow this pop stand. The sooner, the better. As someone once said. Absolutely.

Shameless plug: You deserve a Christmas present. You do.

Do you have your smelling salts handy? If not, fetch them. Quick. Why? Because we have just added fabulous patterns to The Blue Gardenia, nearly 70 of them, and they are sure to have you faint with desire.

Shall I share my favorites, the ones that have this little heart o' mine going pittter-patter-pitter-patter-pitter-patter? I shall. You know it.

In no particular order, here they are:

McCall 6370, copyright 1947. This bustle blouse is totally gorgeous. Totally noir. You could wear it for evening or for day. The important thing is to wear it. Absolutely.

And if you need an evening dress, of the tell-me-where-you go-it-now-or-else variety, then look no further than Simplicity 2229, circa 1930s. This one is not cut on the bias, but you could do so, if you dared. It's fully loaded as is, though. And since there are not one but two dresses in it, it's truly an investment pattern. Worth every penny. Truly.

Another outstanding evening dress, with a nod to style maven Madonna, is Vogue Designer Original 1605, copyright 1995. It's designed by Bellville Sassoon, and it is stunning, stunning, stunning, and ever-so-sexy, from its laced corset bodice to its flirty and full skirt. Imagine the rustles if you made it in a stiff satin. Love this one. Love it. Absolutely. Do you dare where it to the office Christmas bash? Mmmmm . . . I say, yes, go for it. Those nerdy co-workers deserve a treat. So let it be your Christmas present to them, Ms. Generosity, you.

And for your ladylike moments — and I know you have them — McCall 9366. So Grace Kelly. So very. Love the flap details. The stole. The slim silhouette. You could even make it out of silk shantung for a cocktail dress conversion. I want this one in my size. I do. Got it in a Bust 36 or 38? Call me. Do. And, by the way, in case you care, it's from 1953. Did I say this one has me salivating? It does. Really.

There are so many more marvelous patterns! I would not lie. I would not give you, dear, dear readers, false hope. I wouldn't.

So. Click. Shop. Enjoy. You've been good. You've been shopping, shopping, shopping for everyone else. Now you, my princess or prince, you deserve a present. Or two. Santa told me so. You have been good this year. So very, very.

You'll also find new in Maternity, and there are quite a few ensembles suitable for Betty Draper. And, as always, new additions go at the beginning of each category to make it easier for our loyal customers (I thank you, I do). And remember, we take Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal, to make it easier for you. So rush on over. After all, I need groceries. I like my Joan Holloway hips.

Oh, sloth. Be gone. Now. I command you.

It's a holiday weekend, and that means I've been cocooning. Snuggling up in a chair, feet on an ottoman, eating pecan pie and watching bad TV or reading silly Southern novels. And my attire? Well, I'm not making Bette Davis proud. I'm wearing yoga pants, a tee-shirt and holey white socks. Now. I haven't done yoga since I impinged my rotator cuff in August. But that doesn't mean I've sidelined the comfy clothing.

Watching Casablanca yesterday, the thought struck: Shouldn't I be wearing a hat? That perhaps is going too far. Way. But perhaps I could kick my at-home wardrobe up a notch. Or even two. Say McCall 4520 and McCall 4803. Both from my favorite fashion era, the 1940s. The blouse in flowy rayon. The slacks in gabardine. Maybe some low platform wedges to kick off by the sofa. I could even comb my hair. Polish my nails. Bathe. Oh, the grooming improvements are endless!

Mmmmm . . . . But the big question, the really big one, is this: Can I give up cotton knit? It's a tough habit to kick. It's so stretchy. So soothing. So wash-and-wear. Am I strong enough? Am I? I must summon all my strength. I must.

Inspirations? Absolutely not!

Now this . . . this is a party dress. Suitable for the most hoity toity crowd at the most hoity toity ball. All eyes will be on you. Wondering "what the heck was she thinking?" 

It's structural, yes. And that  is good. But it's silly. Too. Much, much too. Vogue Couturier 298, circa 1946. Would I wear it? Not in a million. I don't want rayon-taffeta swirls above my bosom. Too frilly. Too silly. Too doll cake. But the color, so strawberry-luscious, is delectable. That I admit.

 

She says. And she says it often.

Today, may I announce my new blog? Of course I can. Of course I will. After all, this is my blog. Now, whether you choose to read my new blog, She Says, is entirely up to you. Entirely. Completely. But I hope that you will read it. Each and every word. 

Now. Don't run away when I say this — please — but it's a collection of short stories. A warning, though, for those of you who like your language mild: The narrator is a stalker, and he uses four-letter words. Freely. OK. That's it. That's all I am saying. Go forth. Follow. Read She Says. I will not lead you astray.

Ahhhhh, domesticity. There's cooking. And then there's sewing.

I have exciting news to share.  His Bertness is learning to cook! Now. Those of you who know him well know that he has been more than resistant to learning to cook. In fact, in the 18 years of our marriage — before now — he has mastered one dish: homemade chicken broth. 

But this week, he made a taco casserole all by himself. All  by himself! It was quite tasty. Yesterday, he shaped and baked these Oatmeal Chocolate Crisps. Don't they look scrumptious? They are, I can attest. Today, perhaps, he'll learn to make dinner rolls. I can smell them now. Yumbunnies.

Before you know it, dear readers, I'll be sewing. Because if His Bertness can learn to cook . . .

Inspirations: The perfect dress for the perfect seduction

It is late at the adult center. Very. The DJ has played horrid music all night. Music he regards, you are quite sure, as youthful. Imma Be is not a rumba. I Kissed A Girl is not a waltz. The DJ is old enough to know better. He is darn close to tumbling out the other side of middle age. He will not see 50 again. Heck, you'd wager your favorite Walter Kerns that 55 has come and gone for him. You won't see 35 again. You won't. And you are one of the youngest people in this ballroom. 

Sigh. Heavy sigh. Long sigh, dramatically drawn out. Susan Hayward is, after all, your role model.

Fantasy time-out. You are wearing McCall 3440, copyright 1955. The 4-ply silk crepe caresses your skin. The hydrangea pink flatters your softly fading tan. You feel wonderful. You feel irresistible. You feel like you are going to live forever and enjoy each and every moment.

A finger flicks your shoulder. A voice murmurs in your ear, May I have this dance? Your reverie interrupted. Suddenly. Drat. You are annoyed. Oh so. But then, the notes of Noche De Ronda, your favorite rumba, begin. Spanish guitar. You cannot say no. You want to dance. You must dance. You put your hand in your partner's. Rise to your feet. Only then do you lift your eyes. Only then do you realize your partner is Don Draper. None other. Calm. Solid. Handsome. But is he a polished dancer? Mmmmmm. It's your fantasy. You decide.

Let the dust bunnies Charleston in all the extra space.

Yesterday, I held a garage sale. Yet another painful, dusty step toward decluttering. Toward horizons unknown when His Bertness lands that dream job. Heck, any job that keeps a roof over our heads and crunchy peanut butter on the table will be fine. Even if it's in South Dakota. Even. I understand layering really works. I'm skeptical. I am.

Anyway. For me, decluttering always reveals treasures. And one is this picture of L'Nora Goldman Calhoun. She's the babe on the left with the smile as wide as the Mississippi. Mam was quite the seamstress. I wonder if she ever made McCall 3929? So elegant with the dropped, scalloped waistline. Ladylike, yes. But sexy, too. 

And in case you were wondering — you were, weren't you? — I did not make much money at the garage sale. Some items did find new homes, though. And for that, an attitude of gratitude abounds. Really. 

Yes no maybe so certainly yes no maybe so

To say yes? Such a commitment, she thinks, as she fingers the pages of Modern Bride. Such a commitment, she knows. She loves him. Certainly. That is not the question. That is not the issue. The issue is union. Solidarity. Taking her eyes off the door. Having no escape hatch. Because to her, marriage means forever. Forever. The word resounds in her brain. Forever.

It's not washing their smelly socks together that makes her hesitate. It's the finality. The limitations. Saying no to other possibilities. Accepting that he is the one. That he will be. Forever.

Accepting that she will be part of a couple. Legally. What is that saying — Buddhist, is it? — we are not two but one, we are not one but two? Impossible, this decision, she thinks. Impossible.  As are the gooey confections on the glossy pages of this bridal magazine.

She would choose something simple, should she decide to say yes. Something that speaks to the solemnity of the occasion. Something like Vogue's Bridal Design 2809. Even if she says no to him, she might say yes to this dress. In black velvet and lace. Knee length. No ribbon. Absolutely not. And if she says yes, yes to that lifetime challenge, perhaps silver satin. Yes. Definitely. Silver. Not white. It is not her color. It's dull. It's boring. It's traditional. 

Ahh, but the question. His question. Yes no maybe so certainly. If only marriage was as simple as skipping rope. Well. She will not answer the question today. The laundry beckons.

Silly? Perhaps. Mischievous? You bet.

Do you ever have those days? You know? You burn the toast, and, gosh darn, those were your last two slices of bread. You drop the half-gallon of organic, BGH-free milk. It spills all over the kitchen floor. The accountant does not return your calls. Neither does her assistant. You puncture your pantyhose with a fingernail whose No Spain, No Gain polish is chipping. Drat. Darn. This is the day you need a pick-me-up, something more playful, with more attitude than caffeine. You need a frisky hat. A saucy hat. A hat that stands tall and defies the world to say boo. A hat that announces you will not be ignored. But yet  . . . a hat that laughs out loud in bell-like tones. You need this hat, from 1939. Ladies Home Journal 1615. Take it on the chin, naysayers. Because you will not be defeated. Not by blackened bread. Not by a soiled floor. Not by number crunchers. Not by nail polish. You have a sophisticated hat. Oh. So. It could be from Paris. London. But. You made it yourself. So there.

Inspirations: And don't forget shoulder pads the size of Learjets

Does bad taste sometimes relentlessly clutch you and refuse to let go? Do you sometimes want to channel Krystle or Sammy Jo or push Alexis in the swimming pool or yank her hair until she yelps? Or maybe you just want to have fun and rock the '80s? Well, I suggest Simplicity 8358, copyright 1987. With leggings and booties and yachtloads of attitude.