No More Skirting the Issue: The Ride for Roswell Skirt Giveaway

Remember my Ride for Roswell?  Oh, that little 20-mile bike ride for cancer research fundraising?  The ride for which I trained with a shaky first ride and with a few rides full of panache and cycle style?

For which rain did not cooperate sometimes and for which I rode ghetto-unfabulous with a posse of my badass sisters for backup and commiseration?

For which I ate like a beast (sometimes during the actual bike rides)?

Baby Bel and I chomping on hot dogs

And which, of course, I rode with the coolest people on earth–my sisters and friends, not to mention all 8,000 other awesome Ride for Roswell participants?

As official a team photo as we could manage!

The unofficial shot--sisters scream silly Spanish swearwords, as per tradition

Yes, well…  All of that happened almost a month ago and I have been shamelessly neglectful in holding the Ride for Roswell Skirt Giveaway, due to some circumstances within my control (too much household craziness, chasing down some post-ride donations and pledges) and some outside of it (family issues, work craziness, flight delays, etc).

But no more!

I decided to go about this in a thoroughly unscientific way because math hurts my head on a Sunday night (as for the flash, the camera manual for my new DSLR also hurts my head on a Sunday, hence the glare–I’ll learn soon, I promise).  Each donor was allocated a number, which was entered once for every five dollars they donated:

How very scientific!

The numbers were folded up into itty bitty little squares and tossed in a most appropriate vessel–my scratched saucepan:

I know--it's time to replace this with better Teflon

Wherein they were tossed and shaken all about:

Boom shakalaka shake...

Shake it like a pan full of popcorn (go on, sing it to the tune of Outkast's "Hey Ya")

Then stirred for good measure:

The oatmeal spoon sees some night action, ooh la la

Before a winning number was pulled out:

The spoon is as impartial as I am!

Under the watchful eye of Umbi, who was monitoring proceedings for fairness and procedural propriety:

I swear his eyes are under there--and they're SERIOUSLY watchful...

And the winner is…. Kendra!

Woot woot!

Congratulations to the lovely Kendra!  I’ll be getting in touch to get measurements and ask for color/print preferences, etcetera.

I would also like to thank EVERYONE who donated and everyone who wished me well or even gave me and my silly team a thought on Ride for Roswell day.  We couldn’t have done this without you and I can’t wait to do it again next year–33 miles, here I come!

In Which I Show You That I’ve Been Wearing Clothes

I have been very remiss in posting outfits during my time in Buffalo.  This morning, I realized that you might even think I’ve been running around in  my altogether–or in clothes for running and Zumba and riding a bicycle.  Frankly, there’s been very little evidence of sartorial sass around here lately, never mind sewing antics (what’s a sewing machine again?).

Well, I can assure you that I have not broken any public decency laws, as I have been FULLY clothed this entire time in Buffalo (except for a bikini sighting at Stonybrook and its beautiful gorges last weekend).  And, not only have I been fully clothed, I’ve also been making the most of having access to the closets of others, namely Baby Bel’s closet.

(Now handing camera over to Baby Bel, who will give picture-taking a worthy shot despite some rather creative, or sloppy, cropping tendencies.)

Exhibit A:

The provenance of this dress is unknown, except for the fact that it came from Baby Bel’s closet.  I think a friend gave it to her, and since it no longer has tags, I don’t have a clue as to the brand.  Or the size.  Or why it is so damn cute and I had never spotted it and thieved it from her before.

Exhibit B:

This dress was found in Baby Bel’s closet.  She acquired it in a nefarious trade with Little A, in which Little A wrangled a much more expensive item of clothing (what it was, I have no idea) in exchange for this dress, which originally came from Target.  I don’t care about the politics and trade negotiations and settlements that went into the agreement; I’m just glad I get to wear it when I visit in the summer.

The funny thing about having sisters–apart from being a collective toilet-paper-sucking unit–is that we all shop at pretty much the same stores .  If Target and Old Navy were as marketing-savvy as they should be, they’d ship us a truckload of their best items each season and have no need for any marketing campaign beyond that.

However, though we often end up buying the same items (and I mean the exact same items!) we manage to wear them differently.  Little A wears her bright tank tops slouchy and oversized; Baby Bel might wear the same one, fitted and layered; Minxy will wear hers fitted and with jeans; and mine will be fitted and tucked into a colorful skirt.  Clothes around this house get as much mileage as I’ve put in on Caribbean Airlines in the last two years.

Sadly, it’s just not the same with shoes.  We wear different sizes (ranging from teeny with Minxy to respectable non-Bigfoot with Baby Bel) and have widely different views on which shoes are “comfortable” and which ones pose the risk of a broken ankle or falling into a manhole.  Case in point:  Little A insisted that I wear a pair of her very high, very strappy, very platformy, very mean-bitch shoes out for dinner a few weeks ago.  In the ten minutes that I wore them and contemplated leaving the house in them, I managed to trip down the stairs, drop a contact lens, snag my dress on the shoe, and create scuffmarks on my mother’s kitchen floor.  You all know what happened after that:  I changed into flats and she rubbed my heel-sporting ineptitude in my face by teetering to and from the restaurant.  Oh, the indignity of it all.

So you may be seeing less of my own clothes and more of theirs in the coming days.  I’ve got just a few days left here, and I’m planning on squeezing out the very best from their closets.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll rock their clothes so well that they’ll feel generous and make a donation to a sister in want.  Here’s to hoping!

Welcome to the Sweatshop

Mamalicious, if you happen to be reading, stop right now and look away–this one’s about you (mostly)!

It has been a literal fashion sweatshop at my house for the last week, with the weekend hitting fever pitch of sewing mania. Did I seem distracted?  Blame it on the sewing.  Did I write lots of typos?  Blame it on the sewing.   Did I eat the most boring food alive?  Blame. It. On. The. Sewing.

There is a reason for this all, though.  As a condition of my six-week sojourn at Chez Mamalicious (the longest since I left home nine years ago–eek!), a list of Laura Must-Do’s has been issued to me.  These conditions include:

  • The almost-daily making of delicious lunches to the satisfaction of Mamalicious’s taste buds and dietary requirements (we’re talking lots of salad here, people)
  • The clearing out and cleaning up of basement and attic (hi, like I didn’t hate cleaning the basement when it flooded with yuckwaters last Christmas!  However, the attic is fair game, since that’s where the material evidence of my pre-Britain and pre-Trinidad life is boxed up–did you know I actually have “good cutlery” up in thurr?  Yeah, I forgot about it too…)
  • The making of a wardrobe for Mamalicious to teach in and leave her students agog at her fashionable adorableness

The first has been tackled appropriately, with a list of good eats for Mamalicious now living in my wallet, ready to be whipped out each time I think of something nice to add to it.  I hope she has a discount with a local funky-lettuce grower because, like I said, Mama and I are eating more (well-embellished) grass than the cows out in the fields this summer.

The second?  Ach.  I’m bringing a bottle of duty-free rum and a bottle of duty-free tequila into Chez Mamalicious to deal with clearing out the basement and attic.  I’m much better (read: reckless) at tossing old junk when I’m intoxicated–in fact, that’s the only way to do this, as far as I’m concerned.

The third?  Well, Mamalicious is getting the wardrobe I would have made myself this summer, had I not been slaving over making it for her.

I’m hooking her up with this skirt:

In these patterns:

She’s also getting a gorgeous shift dress similar to this one (the sleeveless belted one, possibly made A-line in the skirt):

In this beauty of a floral explosion:

And a shirt-dress like my very own beloved Frankensteined dress:

In this enviable navy-and-white abstract floral/blobby print:

With such cute, painstakingly-selected buttons that I almost regret making this for her instead of for me:

She’s also netting a few A-line shift dresses like this one:

In some gorgeous saturated solids–I’m thinking orange, a magenta of some kind, and a green, with fabrics to be procured over the next couple of days.  It’ll be easy sewing to keep busy with while I’m visiting–and she has about a week’s worth of summery work clothes that I’ll have made to tide her over while I work on those for about a week.

She’s got me so busy that I’ve had to forgo reading my guilty-pleasure George Pelecanos crime drama in the interest of getting these  selfish sewing endeavors finished:

Dress turned into skirt, with the help of some nice orange from my curtains (literally snipped off before sewing)

A yet-to-be-finished dress that needs a zipper and a hem

In other words, I’m giving up Dexter and DC crime for my Mama’s dresses.  If that doesn’t earn me free passes to her Zumba class and unlimited use of her bike (to train for my Ride For Roswell), I don’t know what does.  There’d better b a grand reception at the airport, complete with tulips and champagne, for her seamstress.  That’s all I’m saying.

Do you get sucked into any particular tasks when you go home?  Are there things you volunteer to do for the family when you go home to visit?

One thing I will happily and easily provide is a tuna lunch like today’s:

Tuna mixed with spicy mustard, mayo, lime zest, tomatoes, pepper, and black pepper, served on crunchy whole-wheat pita.  We’ll be seeing a lot of this, modeled on her pretty plates!  I can’t wait to use her lovely collection of plates and I’m sure that you can’t wait to see different plates either, so watch this space…

But before that, stay posted for my Core Fusion Sport review tomorrow. If I can move in the morning, that is.

Trini Tales Thursday: Slang… And Sushi, Too

When I first moved to Trinidad, I was a bit worried about understanding the accent here.  I had listened to some Trini radio online before and, well, sat there dumbfounded while trying to figure out what was said three sentences ago.

It took a bit of time (and quite a few embarrassing repeated “What?/Say that again?/Sorry?”) to get it down, but I can understand most people now.  However, what I’m still amazed at is the extent to which Trini slang differs from anything I’ve ever seen before–and how easy it was to fall right into using it.

So, in honor of me steupsing in traffic, giving cut-eye to bad parking jobs, and going bazodee at sushi today, I thought it might be time for a Trini slang lesson.  Get your notebooks out or I’ll ketch your tail….

  • cuteye/stinkeye–fairly self-explanatory; to give a mean look.  Example:  “I gave cuteye to the pervy man on the bicycle who was staring at me during my morning run,” or “the cashier gave me stinkeye when I asked her to pack my groceries into reusable bags.”
  • steupse (pronounced “stoops”):  a sound made by sucking your teeth in disapproval or dismay.  Example:  “Every time I see the price of strawberries, I steupse.  I’m not paying US $6 for a pint of berries.  Steupse.  Steupse. Steupse.”
  • ketch your tail: to get someone in trouble or give them a good telling-off/hiding.  Example:  “Next time I see the water pump repairman thiefing my mangoes, I’m gonna ketch his tail REAL good.”
  • hear dis nah: a way of prefacing a story, preferably a salacious or gossipy one; like using “so….” or “you won’t believe this.”  Example:  “Hear dis nah:  I saw the neighbor kissing her gardener, and her husband was in the house!  Yes, girl…”
  • bazodee (pronounced “BAZ-uh-dee): going really, really, maniacally crazy for something or someone. Example:  “I go bazodee for nacho-flavored Doritos.”
  • bacchanal: any general or specific craziness.  Example:  “The start of the Clico 5K race was total bacchanal, people  lining up anyhow and taking off before the whistle.”
  • macco: to gossip about others.  Example:  “I have no patience for people who go to the pool to macco and not to swim; they take up my lane and I want to bop them over their gossipy heads with my swimming board.”
  • bamsie/bumper: the booty.  Example:  “If I do my Core Fusion for a month, I’ll have a REAL nice bamsie for so…”

So go forth and spread the good Trini word…  and, if you don’t, at least do a little steupse at anything that bothered  you today.  I guarantee it’ll make you feel much, much better.

Missed previous Trini Tales Thursdays?  Check out Office Life–insights on air conditioning, tea, and the correct way to open a door with a buzzer…


Foodery today included an out-of-body experience with the new oatmeal (steel-cut oats after weeks of quick Quaker crap?  Be still my heart!):

Plus grapefruit, coffee, and email catch-up

And a green monster with about 1/3 cup of coffee added in (which, oddly enough, blended with the banana, soymilk, and spinach to  turn my smoothie into a refreshing mix  of chocolaty green goodness):

Green monster and water--all beverages enjoyed from bottles due to my bad tendency to spill EVERYTHING around my electronics

However, the key foodery event du jour was the sushi at More Sushi on Ariapita Ave. in Port of Spain, for which I dressed thusly:

Dress by me, finished five minutes before heading out the door; shoes Target; earrings were a sister gift; necklace is granny bling

And, speaking of that meal, Lord have mercy! I wish I could go around flaying fish for every meal, but until then, More Sushi will have to do–it was a pile of crazy, but a supremely inspired pile of crazy with chunky tuna, jalapeno, cucumber, some kind of roe, and a spicy chili sauce on top:

Trinis are great cooks, no matter the cuisine they make.  How they manage to improve on regular ol’ sushi is beyond me, but boy oh boy… Trini cooks have a sweet han’ fuh so (great touch in the kitchen).  May I live and learn…

An Open Letter To My Nike+

Dear Nike+,

First of all, I’m sorry I haven’t named you yet, though I do call you a million different things (like, “c,mon, dogball licker, tell me it’s been four miles already!”–not that you’d call that a name or anything).  My bad.  I’m sure we can find a suitable name together.

On to the business.

Since we first joined forces in December, we’ve been inseparable.  You arrived, fit right into my green ipod and told me to send Google Maps packing.  Thanks to you, I know when I’m being fast (for me, which is seldom) and when I’m being slower than a turtle dragging a trailer (which, lately, feels like always).  You’ve reassured me through 112.5 miles since January.  As in, wow!  I’d never know that if it wasn’t for you.

You have been so cool I defended you to all the doubters (ie Husband) who wee jealous of my attachment to a tiny bit of plastic.  Had I not heard “halfway point” in your suave, debonair voice, I would’ve been tempted to desist on quite a few runs and just walked the 1/4 mile between said point and home.  I’d never know that my current, normal, not-dying-but-still-feelin’-it pace is 9:50 min/mile, nor would I have the ability to track each and every walk break, whether mean-dog related or not.

However, I think we need to take a hiatus.  When I’m a bit tired and dragging–yet still drag my unfabulousness out for a run–and finish a run that was OK but not AMAZING, I get discouraged when I look at my stats, which you so kindly provide in hairsplitting detail.  I don’t really want to know that, at the exact moment I was contemplating throwing myself into the gutter for the promise of cool (or plain old wet) water, I was clocking a 10:10 mile.  I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing that my pace has gone down a smidge (10 seconds, which feels like an age and a half) in the last three weeks while I adjust to thumping heat and running four miles, and I really wish you wouldn’t tell me.

In short:  I’ve worked hard (as in, I’ve worked a third of my ass off) and I will continue to do so, and I don’t need to be discouraged by you tracking each and every stat so I can obsess over seconds lost and gained.  I don’t kneed to compare myself to times that others set, and I mostly don’t.  But I also don’t need to compare myself to times I set when the temperature or humidity were lower, or my hamstring didn’t pinch, or when I was trying to go faster before I was ready (and injuring myself in the process), or when I was running from weird ogling gardeners and their staring eyes.

It’s not you, it’s me.  It really is.  (Ok, it is you a little bit–seriously, you had Lance Armstrong congratulating me on my longest run after a three-miler a week ago?  Inattentive.  But whatever.)

So how about we just see each other less?  Maybe twice a week is enough for us.  I think I can use some quality one-on-one time with the iPod (and let’s not get into how you won’t let me listen to the radio–we can discuss your exclusivity another day), and you can certainly use more sleep.  Plus I know you’re embarrassed to be seen with me and the Clico hat and secretly think I look like a knobhead with it–which I do, I’ll admit it, but sweat and glare gets in my eyes and, as you have no eyes, you wouldn’t understand.

Don’t cry!  Don’t beep!  This reduced-outing schedule need not be final!  If I can manage to stop obsessing over my stats after Friday’s run, you know that on Monday we’ll be cool as ever, chillin’ like villains down the road, and as meant to be for one another as we always have been.  But if not, please let me deal with the mathematics obsession on my own until I’m not going fractious over fractions.  I promise I’ll come back to you–after all, you ARE my first and only pacekeeper.

Plenty love,


PS–I’m sorry a 5k 31:32 time, 10:03 min/mile pace this morning had to kick off these proceedings.  It’s been a long time coming, but hopefully it’ll be a short time going (and don’t laugh at that pitiful quip–you know you’re not any wittier than I am.)


Signed. Sealed. Delivered.  Moving on.

In keeping with the goal of wearing self-made every day until I quit my day popstand, I threw on this dress this morning:

Multi-tasking--modeling, clearing backyard debris, and enjoying pizza crust afternoon snack

I made this dress a year and a half ago and I’ve been thinking about taking in the sides and amending it to fit better, but I don’t think my sisters would approve if I brought it home and they couldn’t wear it (I have the narrowest ribcage and shoulders of the four of us).  So it remains a bit off.  Then again, I am a serious overfitter when it comes to sewing, so I should just let it be.

As for the day’s culinary delights, let’s just say that a nice homemade dinner was trumped by coming home to no water coming out of the faucets, turning on the water pump, and hearing awful grinding sounds (still with no water coming out of the faucets).  I guess I had been secretly hankering after Chinese, so it could have been a blessing in disguise?  Either way, I’ll take it–and eat it fast, as I finished Core Fusion pilates and arms and a twenty minute pilates youtube session to the sounds of growling hungry stomach:

Chinese gingery and garlic vegetables, vegetable fried rice, black bean fish--all fresh and delightful

Please cross your fingers that I have water tomorrow and that I can get over the running stat issue.  Do you ever feel like running gadgets do you more harm than good?  If you have a Garmin/Nike+/heart rate monitor, do you use them each time you work out?

When Good Habits Come Home To Roost

Or, when your virtuous ways come back to bite you in the ass.

I have the WORST sugar hangover today.  It was so awful that when I got home from a party yesterday afternoon, I gulped two glasses of water, flopped on the couch, and fell asleep at 8:30 pm.  With the curtains open for freaky neighbors to see me splatted on the couch if they so wished.  And with no AC in 85F heat.  And the Mets game on, and loud, on the TV–hello, the maligned Mets were on and I didn’t even care to kick up a fuss?  You know that’s nearly a sign of the apocalypse.

I don’t think it was just the sugar.  With two parties in two days, it’s been a social weekend around here, and great fun, and more activity than my old-lady self can handle these days.

The good:

  • Two parties in one weekend (make me feel 22 again)
  • A chance to wear two cool dresses for more than just myself, the husband, and the dog–who am I to object to dressing-up opportunities?
  • As worn at the Valsayn fete in March--wore it same way but forgot to take a picture

Dress by moi, shoes from Trincity Mall

  • Showcasing makeup skills (ok, not really–just showcasing red lipstick one night)
  • Catching up with friends
  • Meeting new people
  • Munchies galore by people who make it their business to do munchies in style, unlike sloppy-hosting-moi
  • Wine, beer, etcetera–cabernet from a bottle or shiraz from a box? Carib or Stag beer?  Ooooh, the choices…

The bad and the ugly:

  • Exhausted from two parties in one weekend=I’m definitely not 22 anymore
  • Dying of heat in two dresses, and now needing to handwash two dresses full of mosquito repellent, beer drips, and pastry crumbs
  • Probably talked way too much to friends because I’ve been cooped up lately–not a pretty sight
  • Definitely forgetting the names of new people
  • Munchie malaise–eating almost enough to make up a meal, but not quite, and at odd times, which makes me feel like I’ve been steamrolled (especially when sugar is involved)
  • Feeling like an alcohol sponge

Who am I and why do I want to keel over after eating pastries and cake all afternoon?  How can two glasses of wine put me right to sleep?  Is this what a [mostly]cake-and-Coke-free existence does to people?

I know, I know.  “Well, Miss Thing,”  I can hear you saying, “it’s not like anyone MADE you eat that piece of cake.”  Yes and no.  At a large gathering, you can turn things down.  At a smaller one, where you’re all sitting in a circle and plates of food are handed to you, it’s not so easy.  Also, there’s a whole cultural imperative at work here in Trinidad when it comes to these things–you just don’t say no.  It’s quite a rude thing to do.  So you enjoy the piece of cake (because come on, it’s a Trinidad-made cake and bound to be delicious beyond your cakiest dreams) and hope not to suffer a slow, sugary death later on.

There is an upside to last night’s and today’s bout of sugar ick.  In my prehistoric times, back when I could eat 33 pieces of sushi in one sitting (yes, true story), I would have eaten that cake and still felt a bit off (way less off than I do now).  But I would have still had four pieces of French toast with syrup this morning.

Instead, I almost yakked at the sight of a mango, couldn’t finish my one-teaspoon-of-sugar coffee, and resorted to a very savory sada roti to sop up the sugar.  I also felt regret (not guilt, mind) at not having been able to run this morning after looking forward to a new playlist all weekend and vowed to make up for it with a killer run tomorrow.

Rather than be annoyed at the way my weekend gluttony paid off, I should be grateful that it happened.  It’s a sign that I’ve got the healthy habits down pat.  It’s slightly reassuring that, even if I wanted to lapse back into three-pieces-of-cake behavior, my body would not be down with that–and would definitely tell me so.

So the lesson here?  You CAN get used to life without copious amounts of cake/wine/late nights.  You might even like it.  And let’s hope you do, because there’s no going back.

Not without a mean sugar hangover, anyway.


I felt green all day, but wore blue instead  (and kept to my resolution of wearing one Laura-made item per day until Q-Day, or quit day, this Friday):

Dress by moi, shoes by Target, rain by early rainy season

And, in the spirit of eating as few ingredients as possible and making those ingredients good and wholesome (and because I can ALWAYS stomach Chinese food), I made a stir-fry of sesame garlic green beans and thin spaghetti for dinner tonight:

A dinner that green makes me feel decidedly less so–funny, isn’t it?  Relieving, at least.

Gotta go–a particularly terrible Law and Order is on and I MUST watch.  It’s part of the sugar-hangover solution, I swear.

(Not) Having an Easter Food Baby Part III: Easter Feasting and The Aftermath

On Sunday, I decided that our Easter dinner was going to contain 75% of the vegetables in our fridge, after the last few days of starchy and fried goodness. I mean, I can eat as much as the next girl for a day or two, but no way can I eat like I used to for three days straight.  I’m relieved that I can’t (though you know I took great pride in being a human vacuum cleaner and eating as much as the boys, back in my day)–and so glad I still have the receipt from when I housed 33 pieces of sushi in Vancouver in 2004, as a trophy of my near-competitive-eating glory days.

I chopped and sauteed and stirred and baked, and was 100% thrilled with the result of my vegetarian pastitsio (Greek or Middle Eastern baked dish with pasta and a bechamel sauce):

Out of the oven....

And onto my plate

I defied the evil heat (95 F at 10:30 am!) to cook for Easter Bunny Day (which I hope the rabbit appreciates).  I put together the sauce with lentils, eggplant, sweet peppers, onion, tomatoes, tomato sauce and plenty of garlic and topped it with a soymilk-based bechamel (with feta mixed in on the gentleman’s portion).  I have to give love once again to the Moosewood restaurant cookbooks–this Greek delight came from their Moosewood Restaurant Celebrates book, in a menu for Greek Easter, how fitting–for their spot-on and creative recipes.

After dinner and a suitable amount of wine time (read:  enough time to almost finish the bottle) I brought out the surprise dessert–mocha spice chocolate pudding:

Styled with Peeps

Note to self:  do not indiscriminately dump Mokatika liqueur into pudding lest you end up with flambe-able dessert (and self).   It was still delicious, don’t get me wrong, but I definitely could not have eaten it and then driven a car.  Next time I’ll be erring with caution–after all, wine and chocolate can already make me a bit giddy:

Dress by me, sandals from Britain, headband scarf from 1996 (yes, really!)

Bad Easter bunny impersonation--no wonder he wouldn't come near me

Of course, it should come as no surprise that after such a lovely meal and evening of wine plus alcoholic chocolate, I slept like a baby–a baby happy to have avoided all kinds of heavy fried food for the first time in days.

Easter Monday:  In Which We Thank The British For Yet Another Day Off (Trini) Work

For those of you dwelling State- or Canada-side, please don’t hate me.  Today was all about more sleep!  More relaxation! But with it comes less running and less swimming.

I was dying to move when I woke up this morning, but the pool was closed and I would have needed to get up much earlier to run.  I’m not sure if the morning regulars exercise on holidays, or if they go later in the morning, but I erred on the side of caution and decided I’d rather do a double-workout day or two and a couple of back -to back runs rather than risk being the only one out and about this morning.

I may love wearing fancy office clothes, but it’s beyond nice to be able to wear casual wear all day long on a Monday:

Straining to water plants in 100% Old Navy (shorts, T-shirt, flip flops)

And once thusly attired and fed, I redirected my energies of the day onto my sewing instead, and continued in my quest to turn this:

Into this:

Anthropologie dress

I worked the patience tip like it was my job today.  I hand-basted and machine basted most seams to check for fit, made adjustments, ripped seams apart with care and minimum swearing, and I’m finally at the finish-line for the top part, which is based on a shirt pattern.  On the weekend, I’ll be Frankensteining the skirt, based on another dress pattern I have, onto the top part/shirt.   I have a good feeling it’ll work out–and I have 100% certainty that my foul swearing will be heard from here to Antarctica if it doesn’t.

Excuse me while I go obsess over Season 3 of Dexter.  I’ll try to detach myself from the TV for long enough to sleep and blog (oh, and work) for the next few days, but if not, expect me to resurface once it’s all over.

Good night!