I finally wore it! What “it,” I hear you ask?
Why, the Alexander Blouse!
Let’s go back in time, shall we, to get a full sense of how shamefully I should wear the Procrastinating Queen Crown?
I started the Alexander blouse back on, oh, March 19! See? Here it is, with the pattern laid out for cutting:
That same day, I work on it for long enough to find out that I’d cut the top in four pieces rather than two (what’s with the putting both together at the shoulder to cut business? Sheesh. Thank goodness for seam allowances. And seam rippers, of course.
Then I put in the darts, take them out and redo them to make them line up better with my, um, anatomical proportions. As in, I close the darts higher lest it look like my boobs start at my waist.
Then I put the peplum ruffle on, pin the back shut (why oh why must you have buttons on the back, Alexander Blouse? Don’t you know how impossible that makes you to fit properly?), try it on, screw up courage, and look in the mirror.
I look in the mirror. I make horrified face. I rip it off and cry a bit. Because ladies who wear the Alexander Blouse style do not go around showing off their stomachs in their lady blouses. I made the whole shebang too short. Cue expletives. I dry my eyes and pretend like nothing happened when Husband asks what all the door-slamming two minutes ago was all about.
One day week later, I pick it up again, remove the ruffle, and draft an extension/midriff piece thingie (see? I told you I’m totally self-trained, hence I have no idea what that part is called in sewingspeak. And, being bilingual, I already never know what anything technical is called in eitther English or Spanish). I attach it. I try the blasted thing on again. I have my doubts, but it’s workable and I don’t need to slam any doors (I do a long-suffering sigh instead.)
A few days later, I pick up the blouse to add the buttons. I realize, as anyone with no sense would, that I’d rather start a new dress–fresh project, no problems to fix, better procrastinating strategy. I toss Alexander Blouse into the To-Finish pile in the Room Whose Door I Shut And Pretend It’s Not Where Half-Finished Sewing Goes To Die , where it languishes for I’m-not-saying-how-long.
About a week later, I dig out said Hellblouse and hem the bottom and the sleeves and put in the buttons. I ask myself where the buttonloops should be attached. I realize I should have put them in with the interfacing. I swear some more, but less hair-raisingly than before. I have a cup of tea and go at it gently with the seamripper, put in the loops, cross my fingers, and hope for the best.
I put on the buttons–all minus three at the bottom, because I’m lazy and worry that the buttons won’t line up (never mind that there’s a button guide piece to tell me where loops and buttons go. Do I trust it? Yeah, right. Plus, I’m half-assed and forget such a thing exists.) I put the Alexander Blouse on the third dining room chair, to guilt myself into attaching the last few buttons during a Law and Order binge, a Dexter binge, or any other crap TV binge.
More days go by. Yes, I know. I’m more into doing my nails and Core Fusion during TV time–no buttons get attached.
Last weekend, I catch a marathon of The Hills. It coincides with preparing outfits for my last week of work. I realize that I am not about to start wearing pencil skirts and heels when I start working from home from next week, that the Alexander Blouse DESERVES a proper 40’s-inspired outing–lipstick, hair waved, and all. I also feel the need to counter the trash I plan on watching all day long with the modesty and ladylike accoutrements of times past. I finish the damn thing before Heidi Montag gets her supaboob job.
I wear it today. I accessorize with blue granny and mommy bling, red lips and nails, and plenty of insouciance. I deduce that Burdastyle made the Alexander Blouse solely for ME.
In other words, I rocked the shiznit out of that blouse:
Now I can wear it with shorts. And not slam any more doors over it. What a relief!
Not going to bore you with any more than the basics of the day–I had an awesome breakfast:
And 32 laps were put down at the pool. I swear the last two extra laps made extra goggle indentations that lasted for a couple of hours after the swim, but I don’t care! I like having battle blemishes, anyway. Even ladies like to feel hardcore sometimes…