Cathy Get Your Gun!

Friends, thank you so much for the warm -- some might even say excessive -- welcome you gave Michael yesterday.  We definitely will have him back.

I see Male Pattern Boldness becoming more than a mere sewing blog, but something akin to the ill-fated reality show Britney & Kevin: Chaotic.   It's always fun to get the real story behind the celebrity facade, no?  Why not our celebrity facade?

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that my cold has now moved into the draining stage -- never pleasant, but a sign things are winding down at last.

Now then, readers, how do you feel about Western garb?

It's no secret I'm fond of Western shirts, having just treadled myself one last month.  I've always had a fondness for cowboy kitsch too: Indian jewelry, Sons of the Pioneers songs, cap guns -- that sort of thing.  (I do draw the line at the boots, though, which don't flatter a short man.)

I love how Hollywood used to throw stars like Joan Crawford and Barbara Stanwyck into Westerns (usually when they were on the way down), which often led to over-the-top camp classics like The Furies or Johnny Guitar.  

No one looked as comfortable with a holster on her hip as Joan Crawford.

That's why I was so delighted to find this vintage pattern on Etsy the other day, from 1947.  Shirt, pants AND bolero!

I love that it can go full-out Dale Evans (left) or more in a Katharine Hepburn Philadelphia Story direction (right).  Versatile!

I think Cathy is going to love this look and it will give her a chance to explore the more aggressive side of her personality she's had to suppress in those girly-girl outfits I've been making her wear lately.  There's more than a little Joan Crawford in Cathy...and Broderick Crawford too!

Readers, do you wear Western wear?

Do you consider it politically incorrect, given that most Westerns are about slaughtering native peoples, or liberating as they often put a girl in pants and gave her a rifle?  

Or is it just a fun sporty look?

Do you draw the line at fringe and rhinestones, or are you willing to go full-out Queen of the Rodeo?

Do you think it's a little too much for anyone outside of San Antonio?  Is this strictly an American thing, Euros, Kiwis, Canadians, et al?

Can Cathy pull this off?

Hope so!

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Michael responds! "A well-made, but one-dimensional hit piece."

To the misled minions of MPB (Misleading Propagandist Blathering):

As guest blogger, I decided to use as today's title an eerily appropriate phrase from a review of the recent blockbuster,  The Social Network.  

Still reeling from yesterday's inaccurate portrayal of my corduroy jacket purchase, not to mention the slanderous representation of my persona as well as of my domestic relationship with your regular host, I have decided to use this rare opportunity to address you all as a means of setting the record straight.

I have been granted this opportunity only because, in order to keep up the pretense of being too ill with what appears to me as the most inconsequential flu bug ever to do his fair share of the dog-walking, Peter has been forced to pretend that his symptoms are also too severe to blog.  (Oh, please.  That little academy-award winner is right at this moment luxuriating under the duvet, lips smeared with MY Burt's Bees lip balm, fake-sniffling every couple of minutes, while I type my fingers to the bone so that you, dear readers, will not have to go a day without your RDA of MPB.  But at least you will now know the truth, so I can't complain.  Much.)

What specious barb shall I address myself to first?  That I eschew home-sewn couture?  That I dress like a slut?  That it was my fault that I found myself shopping at the local American Apparel store?  Let's just take these questions in the order they just occurred to me.

Lie #1: Michael doesn't appreciate the clothes Peter has sewn for him.  

This is just laughable.  Peter's pieces have largely supplanted their commercially produced counterparts in those categories in which they fall.  Dress shirts?  On occasions on which I wish to look my best and fanciest -- nights at the opera, first lessons with new students, dinners at elegant restaurants (I added this last example in the hope that Peter will one day take me out to such an establishment) -- I alternate between the two gorgeous dress shirts Peter's sewn for me.  (The Liberty of London fabric one and the green and white striped number, for those of you in the know.)  Sportswear?  If you look at our vacation photos you will note that in them I am wearing nothing else (on top) than my plaid cotton shirts and the two tank tops Peter made for me.  I continue this pattern back home as well.  

In truth, I love the idea that nobody else has a garment like mine.  I love the perfect fit that custom-tailoring allows.  And I feel really special knowing someone has spent time manufacturing something just for me.  

I am patiently awaiting home-sewn replacements for my jeans, my suits, and my one-piece ribbed cotton step-in dance club outfits.  (Some fuddy-duddies think 45-year-olds should avoid the latter; I won't name any names.)

Lie #2: Michael likes to dress like a slut.  

OK, this is not exactly a lie.  But one has to consider the context.  I would not wear a Speedo to Martha Stewart's latest garden party [Martha breathes a sigh of relief].  But Peter and I live in Chelsea, where tank tops are considered de rigeur at brunch.  In January.   It is expected here that 1) you keep up your work-out regimen to maximize your assets and 2) that you dress to display said assets to their advantage.  Peter, as you can see from many of the slutty, I mean, artistic photos on this blog, has committed to maintaining his Chelsea physique, but he contrarily refuses to show it off in public.  

I, on the other hand, in deference to the conventions of my community, seek out the clingy, the low-cut, the short-short, and the peek-a-boo whenever these options are available.  And they always are, in the stores in Chelsea.  I'd hoped that having my own personal tailor would permit me to set  daring new standards of over-exposure in our neighborhood, but Sister Peter the Demure has put her sensibly shod foot down over and over, cramping my style in the process.

In all honesty, occasionally I appreciate Peter's sense of propriety, which I hope will prevent me from becoming the next generation's Mamie Van Doren.  (Especially since there is a good chance that Mamie herself will still be flaunting her assets for the next generation as well.)

Lie #3: Michael wanted to shop at American Apparel last month.  Peter attempted to side-step this issue yesterday, but today we WILL "get into that."

The story began last month, when, as many of you know, my poor, elderly mother expressed that all she wanted in commemoration of her 70th birthday was a photograph of all her children and their partners.  In formal and casual outfits.  In 7 different photographic settings.  And the casual shirts had to be of light, solid colors (but not white) and with button-down collars.  Just a simple wish from a simple old woman.

Knowing my mom's attention to detail and her insistence on our following her orders, I mean, suggestions, I started preparing my wardrobe for the shoot weeks in advance, making sure each piece satisfied the matriarchal stipulations.  Peter, coming from a far more laid-back family, kept assuring me that he had everything he needed, but I knew for a fact that he did not have a button-collar shirt.  "Oh, I'll just sew some buttons onto the collar of one of my shirts."

Yeah, just like he'll sew that $100 pile of wool fabric I bought into a suit.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

As the shoot date drew nearer, I began to break out in stress-hives.  My mother's happiness (and thus everyone's) was at stake.  Finally, after seeing Peter day after day nonchalantly waving his hands around and speaking vaguely of workable shirts in the back of his closet, I decided to take matters into my own hands, before I exploded with anxiety.

I knew that this move would infuriate Peter, who doesn't cotton to having sartorial decisions made for him, so I had to operate in secret.  First, I checked out the Salvation Army, knowing how Peter admires thrift, but they were all out of solid-light-colored, button-down collar dress shirts in his size, so I had to visit the stores in the neighborhood.  I started with the Gap and Banana Republic because of their generous return policies.  (I was pretty certain Peter would not want to wear ever again any shirt I'd presumed to pick out for him, so I figured we could just leave the tags on during the shoot and return the shirt afterwards.  I know, I'm not proud of my deceit, but I was desperate not to disappoint my mom.)  Sadly, the only button-collar shirts I found at either store were plaid -- unacceptable!

Since we were now up to the day before the shoot, I had one more option -- American Apparel.  They were my last choice, because their return policy stipulates exchanges or store credit only.  I would not gain any thrift points for this decision, but remember, I was desperate.  To my relief, they had dress shirts that would fit the requirements in sizes and colors suitable to my partner.  (As the spouse of a sewist, I recognized the poor construction and cheap fabric of this garment, to my credit, but hey, it had to look good only once and only in a photo.)  

Long story short, Peter wore the lilac shirt (looking pretty cute in it, in my opinion) the one time, the tags tucked surreptitiously inside while the camera clicked away.  The next day, I returned it to the store, earning a store credit that I was now forced -- forced, I tell you! -- to spend.  On myself.

Luckily, the clerk had just put out on display an assortment of newly arrived fall jackets.  (This is one category in which I've long had no workable options.)  They had one in a size just snug enough to show off my gym bod and in one of my best colors, a deep sort of liver-y shade.  (It looks better than it sounds.)  I felt elated to have come away from this debacle with a wearable, adorable garment that filled a longstanding void in my wardrobe.

And then to be castigated for over-spending, for buying RTW, for deigning to mock my partner by choosing a garment made of a fabric so close to the one he'd recently bought for a suit for himself!  Well, whose apathy forced me to run to purchase store-bought garments in the first place?

And speaking of RTW, let me end by extolling their principle virtue: they are READY to wear.  One cannot wear a promise, or a pattern, or even a pile of expensive wool fabric (have I mentioned this fabric?).  But one can pull on a ready-to-wear garment for a photo shoot or for any other occasion, knowing that, even if the construction in inferior, even if the fit is imperfect, at least one is not naked in public.  

That would be too slutty, even for me.

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When Loved Ones Insist on Ready-to-wear

Friends, you know my partner Michael has been, and continues to be, a tremendous support throughout my short but dramatic sewing career.

He is forgiving of my growing sewing machine collection and has allowed me to take over way more than my share of the apartment, never suggesting we place a tape dividing line down the center -- a popular 60's sitcom plot device I've always loved.  He also proudly wears my creations albeit sometimes in outfits not entirely to my liking.  I let it go and love him more.

So imagine my confusion when he came home last week with this.

It's wrong on so many levels, readers, I'm not sure where to start.

But let's back up: to his credit (literally) Michael needed to return something of somewhat lesser value to our local American Apparel store and wasn't eligible for a full refund but rather an exchange.  So he had to buy something.  And the item he was returning was an article of clothing he had bought for me.  But let's not get into that today.

How do you feel about American Apparel, readers?  The bloom is so off the rose for me as I learn more about the owner/founder Dov Charney and his sleazy-if-not-outright-abusive ways.  But on top of that, I think the clothes themselves are overpriced and slutty -- and I apologize to the sluts out there who really don't deserve that kind of association.  The mens t-shirts are appealingly soft, however, and I pick them up at the thrift store whenever I find them there.

But back to Michael's jacket.  Did you notice what it's made out of?  That's right: corduroy.  WHAT have I been sewing with for the last two weeks?  What unfinished jacket has been sitting on my body form for the last six days?

Not only that, even the colors are similar.  Ouch.



You'll have to take my word for it right now that the fit is also poor.  It's a size Small but the shoulders are too wide and the sleeves too long.  Not a problem for Michael, apparently.

And then there's the price.  OK, so it's Michael's hard-earned money, not mine, and I shouldn't have anything to say about it, right?

But still...  Seventy-nine dollars for a corduroy jacket? 

I could have made that jacket for one-tenth the price.  Moreover, I intend to.  Look what I picked up on Etsy over the weekend:

Trust me, friends, when I say I will not be sewing this out of spite.  I would like a little jean jacket for myself, frankly, and I may even try making it in suede, if I can find a good source.  I still have countless yards of vinyl faux python too! 

Kind readers, maybe I'm not the most generous person in the world, but I do like to sew for others, unlike an embittered young sewer who has returned to the blogosphere at long last, putting to rest rumors that I was somehow responsible for her disappearance as her last public sighting was with me at Galanga Gardens one month ago.

Like most of you I am relieved to know she has arrived safe at her new home and pity her new neighbors but thus is life.  I miss Dan, mostly.

But back to the subject at hand.

Wise ones spanning the continents, is there someone in your life you enjoy sewing for -- or would enjoy sewing for -- who seems 1) less than interested, 2) insufficiently appreciative, or 3) downright resistant?

If so, what do you do about it?  What can you do about it?

Do you interpret it as a judgment on your sewing skills?  A hostile gesture?  Mere ignorance?

Do you think I should sew a new and better jacket for Michael just to make him feel guilty, or make myself a nicer one and make him feel inferior?

Any other passive-aggressive if forgivably human tactics you suggest?

A nearly eight-year relationship hangs in the balance!

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Peter's Reunion Wrap-up

Gentle readers, I am so very tired this morning and oh, so very hoarse.  But I really had a blast last night at my 30th high school reunion.

Where to begin?  Here I am on my way out the door around 6:30 pm.  I walked there, so I wore sneakers and brought my shoes along in a messenger bag.  I skipped the big rings but wore the psychedelic pocket square and coordinating grosgrain ribbon belt.  I dabbed a little Cacharel Eau de toilette behind my ear.  I didn't polish my shoes, alas (ever the rebel).



The event was scheduled to begin at 7 pm and I planned on arriving no earlier than 7:15 -- fashionably late but early enough to get some canapes.

On my way there I pass some famous New York landmarks...







Finally, beneath darkening skies, I arrive at my destination.





I discreetly change footwear...



And in I go.

It was high school reunion night at the Waldorf apparently -- from my high school alone there must have been a half dozen parties I could have crashed had I been so inclined.

My own was held in a small party suite on the 18th Floor whose decor resembled a funeral home, minus the lilies.   After about a half hour, we were shuttled into an adjoining dining room where tables were set for dinner.  I'd say we were 60 or so, about half my graduating class.  And the food was delicious: a pleasant surprise.

What can I say about the event itself?

It was all relatively low-key; no big surprises.  Everyone looked good I thought, and very much like themselves.  The loud people were still loud, the blunt people maybe a little blunter but nothing too dramatic, about what I expected.   I was the only one who had made my own outfit, that's for sure.

Some old friends:









The only embarrassing moment was when I recognized the date of an old classmate as a well-known author whose book I had recently read.  So I go up to her and I say (feeling very impressed with myself), "You're Naomi Klein, right? I loved your book, The Shock Doctrine"!

To which she responds, "No, I'm Naomi Wolf." (The Beauty Myth.)  And I'm like, "Oh, right, The Power of Beauty."  (Eek, no, that's Nancy Friday.)   I felt like an idiot but in truth, readers, I had read her book, just not recently enough to remember the exact title.  Wouldn't anybody get those two Naomi's confused especially after a few vodka tonics?

I wish I'd kept my mouth shut but what was she doing at my high school reunion anyway?

Nearing midnight, we were asked to clear out of our Waldorf suite and then a small group of us went out for drinks. 





And then it was time to say our good-byes and head back home to our children and chihuahuas.





And that's it!  I shamelessly promoted my blog and let's see who shows up.

I also fear I committed myself to make a pair of cigarette pants for an old pal and let's just hope she forgets.  (Just kidding, hon -- I'm there you!)

A few more pics here.

Friends, thank you all so much for encouraging me to go to my 30th reunion, and not in those staid pleated gray slacks either.  My self-stitched corduroys were a big hit as was the born-again shirt.  I even told a few people about my treadle and their eyes didn't glaze over!  Amazing.

Tomorrow, gentle readers, we return to the exciting world of sewing.  It's time.

And now back to bed.

Happy Sunday, everybody!

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How should a man smell?

Wise readers, how do you like your man to smell?  If you are a man or man-identified, how do you like to smell?

I'll be honest with you: I don't wear cologne anymore.  I do have some old bottles around the house, accumulated over the decades, however.



I decided a few years ago to eliminate as many chemicals from my home environment as possible and I certainly didn't want to put them on my skin.  But for nostalgia's sake I've kept most of what I had.

I bought this bottle in Bologna in 1984 and I still haven't used it up.  I don't think they make it anymore. 



I bought a bottle of Acqua di Parma a few years ago and after deciding to ditch the cologne, sold it on eBay.  There's gold in thar medicine cabinet!



Most mens cologne and aftershave ads seem geared primarily to women, who probably buy most of it as gifts for the men in their lives.  Actually, I'm not sure who the target audience is...







With very few exceptions I hate standing downwind of a man wearing cologne.  I think the cheap stuff smells cheap and the expensive stuff smells worse.  And it can be very strong.  From time to time I do like a dab of geranium oil behind my right ear but that's a whole other thing, don't you think? 

Tonight is my dreaded event.  The pants are hemmed, the shirt ironed.  You've been such a help to me through these last few weeks of sewing and self-improvement -- I feel like a new person.

But how should I smell?

Global opinionmakers and others, what should a man smell like?  (Oh, if only I could blog in Smell-O-vision!)

Do you like your (or anyone else's) man scented, or do you prefer his natural aroma: tobacco, wood shavings, 3-in-One, that sort of thing?

In short, Mens cologne: yea or nay? 

Please hurry -- I'm literally stepping into the shower now!

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Replacing a mens shirt collar -- it CAN be done!

Friends, I've always liked this white shirt I stitched for myself in November 2009 and planned to wear to the dreaded event you know where -- now tomorrow, OMG!

Which reminds me: I must make an appointment at the beauty shop...



I was wanting to wear this lovely white shirt tomorrow -- you know the story -- but I had to do something about the collar.  The interfacing hadn't fused well and the collar was visibly puckered.

So I replaced it!  Here's how.

With my seam ripper, I carefully removed the collar stand and attached collar.  Have you ever seen anything yuckier-looking?  The shame...



I then ironed the now-collarless shirt.  The old edgestitching along the neck was still intact.  This is important to keep the area from stretching.



I still had some of the white shirting left, luckily.  (I'd recently dumped a big bag of fabric scraps and was happy to discover this wasn't among of them.)  I experimented with some interfacings I have, but the heavier one was too much like the one that hadn't fused successfully the first time, and the weft-weight one showed through the very fine fabric.





This shirting is so extremely tightly woven it's difficult to get a pin through.  I decided to interface with another layer of my fabric.



I start on the collar: cutting, stitching, trimming, turning, pressing, and topstitching.











I then sew my inside collar band (the side without the interfacing -- the interfaced side will become the outside band) to the inside of the shirt: right side of band to wrong side of shirt.



Separate from the shirt, I attach my finished collar to the outside band along the top: right side of collar band to wrong of collar (which is how they will appear on the completed shirt).

I then stitch the two collar bands together as I would a shirt cuff, and turn.



To finish, I topstitch along the outer edge of the collar band.  Sometimes I go around the whole collar band, sometimes I don't (don't tell David Coffin!).



I then add button and buttonhole (this hole will be horizontal, not vertical like those on the buttonhole placket).

Voilá -- much improved!





I feel so much happier with the new collar, friends, and more confident.

Today I just have to hem my corduroy pants...

and get myself mentally psyched for the big event!



Any questions about the collar?  Last-minute fashion tips?

Happy Friday, everybody!

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