Thanks for bearing with me while I took an unscheduled blogging break.
My health has been all over the map the past month. Textiles slowed to a crawl in May, then a halt, and my energy levels—for which I have always been famous, particularly for my spastic hyperactivity—dropped precipitately.
Turns out I have a growth on my thyroid, which can fuck with hormones, emotions, and energy levels. A biopsy is scheduled for next week. I also have some ocular weirdnesses. I see a neurologist on Thursday. Hopefully I’ll have some answers soon. It’s been a hard month.
Textiles trickled slowly off the finish line in June. I finished two pairs of pajamas I’ve had stuffed in the sewing drawer for two years, plus I sewed an actual bathrobe.
If you’ve ever lived in an 1880’s Victorian in San Francisco, you know several things.
First, you know that they seldom have heaters, except for some ancient, GIANT old gas-burning relic that heats one, count ’em—ONE—room in the house. Second, you know that the average yearly temperature in San Francisco is 57 degrees Fahrenheit (14C). And you also know that the inside of the Victorian is always colder than the the outside.
I started this giant, pink, fluffy terrycloth bathrobe four years ago, then stuffed it in a closet because a) I couldn’t figure out what to do next and b) my living room looked like there’d been a terrycloth snow storm. I’ve been freezing to death ever since.
In June, Stone Mountain and Daughter had their last sewing class, so I figured it was now or never if I was going to get help on the thing. So I hauled it out, assessed it, and you know what? I kicked that pattern’s ass.
If you’ve ever sewn anything using a “pattern,” you know that the word “pattern” is an egregious misnomer. It’s not a pattern. It doesn’t tell you what to do or instruct you how to do it. It gives you vague directions and complicated pictures and you get to decipher it like it’s hieroglyphics.
So, when I was almost finished with the robe by the time the sewing class rolled around, I was actually super-impressed with myself. Even though I’ve made a ton of shorts for Matt, I haven’t made many other things. The class gave me an opportunity to have my last questions answered, so I could put the finishing touches on the robe at home.
One question, for which there is no answer, is how long will I keep finding terrycloth shreds in my hair in the morning, or stuck to Matt’s toothbrush, or in the fridge.
And I do have to rip the robe off my body (along with the rest of my clothes) really fast when I have a hot flash (yay, peri-menopause!) but overall?
This robe is calf length. It has a bloody hood. The sleeves come down a full four inches past my hands. When I wear it, I look like a fluffy pink druid.
The robe is fat, and thick, and fluffy, and pink, and I am—finally—WARM.