A moment of silence for the dress that will never be

Some days just don't go my way. Admittedly, it's often my lack of interest in planning aka I was totally going to get up off my rear end and shave my legs last night buuuuuuuuuut, I really need to figure out how to make this for pinky's regency outfit. Look at it! I don't know the historical term for this little big girl onesie but it features tiny pintucks on the bottom with just a touch of lace. How cute would that look peeking from under the hem of pinkerton's skirts?

The internet really is a big ol' rabbit hole. Poor Alice ought to be grateful she didn't grow up in the digital age. The cats alone would keep you busy for days. But I digress.

Due to that whole too lazy to get off the computer at a decent hour bit I mentioned, my wardrobe options were limited to stuff involving pants. I pulled on a top I've recently made, my old reliable black pants, and was finishing up my make up when I noticed two big brown spots on the shoulder. At this point, my kids are already in the car, having scurried out ahead of my usual Sunday morning wrath. (If you are a church goer with kids, I don't have to explain this to you. You know and you just cringed.) I stalk into the bedroom and quickly throw on another shirt only to have my husband interrupt me saying, "Whyyyyyy? That one looked better!"

Thanks for that, champ. 

A heavy sigh later and I'm stalking out of the house. I make the fool mistake of looking down and there's some big splotch on the shit of my pants.

The point of this meaningless story is that I need some new church clothes, namely dresses. So I took a whirl around the internet to get some inspiration and was confronted by the one sewing pattern that mocks me in its "completely unsuitable for you" cuteness.

Oh how I want this dress. It calls to me every.single.time I walk into the fabric store. Hell, there is a good possibility I actually bought the pattern. But I promptly lost it or something because it is not around to mock me and my big ol' bust. As cute as this dress is the honest truth is that high necks make it look as if my boobs are going to eat my face.

I'm sure you're thinking, well, dude, how hard would it be to change the bodice to something more flattering, like a v neck perhaps. AND LOSE ALL THAT LOVELY DETAILING?

No, my friends. Better to have loved and lost than to forge on and piss myself off/bring on a big boob shame spiral from which only ice cream can soothe. 

Le sigh

Somethings just aren't meant to be.

Like a potential love affair between me and Tom Hardy.

Aww, do you need someone to kiss your boo boo?

He thinks I'm funny. It's a start, right?

P.S. the internet has suggested Tom Hardy as an excellent starting point for a Monday Morning gif parade. I'm not sure I can disagree. 'Til tomorrow then.

How netflix costs me extra money

I watch a lot of netflix instant. I won't say how much but let's just put it out there that I could probably recite you the first five picks in half the categories by heart. Mr man works nights so I either watch while he's asleep during the day or I watch after he's gone to work and the kids have gone to bed.

Sometimes I come across delicious goodness, like the Forsyte Saga.

Well, hello there,
Captain Douchecanoe  Mr. Soames Forsyte

Sometimes I come across absolute crap that not even pretty little Orlando Bloom can save. (I'd provide a link but I don't want to be responsible for your sudden case of depression.)

I thought about jumping too,
until I remembered I had the remote.

And then sometimes I come across a movie that should be immediately forgettable were it not for one amazing garment that makes my life.

Uma totally looks like a Stepford wife here, amiright?

Okay, perhaps that's an exaggeration. After all, this dress is not the most clever of designs, nor does it use any sort of new color scheme, nor are the fabric choices very inspired. Nonetheless, I was striken with a case of acute Gottamakethisnowitis that would not be cured until I did a little click click over at Fabric Mart and ensured a couple yards of grape charmeuse and black lace netting were speeding their way to my home.

That belt is terrible. Perhaps a sash?
And the length is a bit too long for my tastes.

While I wait for Mr Postman to bring me my goods, I have to figure out how to put it together. I've got the sleeves and the skirt down pat and even the neckline but the whole bodice is still a mystery.

No matter. I cannot wear it until I no longer have to share the sisters with my five month old. That gives me seven months to come up with something.

Btw, if you're curious, the movie is called The Accidental Husband. Unless you simply want to see the dress in action, do yourself a favor and skip this massive, nearly plotless, anticlimatic turd of a movie. It's an insult to my intelligence, to women in general, to Jeffrey Dean Morgan's opportunity to headline a movie, and most of all, to the awesomeness that is Colin Firth.

Look, I think Mr Firth is the bee's knees and apparently, a nice dude in real life to boot. But unless you have a raving addiction to the former Mr. Darcy/Uncle Jamie/King George VI, do yourself a favor and watch this instead.

That's right, you walk  home,
you dirty, dirty boy
and in leather too.

Not enough Colin? Skip right over to the Best Week Ever archives and take a handful of napkins along to deal with that drool problem you've suddenly developed. I see you. 

Speaking of Mr. Firth, if you haven't seen A Single Man, please get on it. It's beautifully shot, so very pretty, and quite lovely. In fact, it's the prettiest movie I've seen since Girl With a Pearl Earring, also a Colin Firth flick. Except the former is a fantastic movie while the latter forces you to endure a particularly glassy eyed, opened mouth Scarlett Johansson while waiting for Colin sightings.

Oh the horror!

Today, my son misidentified Take It On the Run as a Beatles song.

Three of the Fab Four just rolled over in their graves.



Oh, Ringo's not dead?
Someone tell his eyes.



My friend Elizabeth is going to drive her happy behind all the way from Connecticut and burn my house down unless I rectify this unfortunate situation. Despite being perfect for pretending you're an 80's front man while booking 75 on the highway, on no planet does REO Speedwagon sound like the Beatles.

No way, no how.

::sigh::

It's a long way to the top if you're going to rock n roll, especially if you can't tell one era from another. I wonder if Dewey Finn might be willing to live in my sewing room for a few months. I'm pretty sure I can manage to scrounge up enough Mountain Dew, gummy peaches, and a couple months of WOW subscriptions with which to pay him.

 

What up? Level 80 paladin the house!

Speaking of 80's front bands, please, please, please explain to me who told Tom Cruise he could be a rocker? He couldn't be mistaken for a roadie and yet someone cast him in the role of a rock god.

Really? I mean really???!?

I'll petition the court myself to get Russell Brand half of Katy Perry's money if it will keep him from selling his soul to a certain Xenu loving pygmy. But clearly it's too late. Instead of gifting Tommy boy with the derision he deserves, Russell is actually starring in Rock of Ages along side Catherine Zeta-Jones and one of the proactive girls.

It's too late for that face, Russell.
You already took the money.

To make matters worse, it looks like Tom Cruise is going to spend the majority of the movie sans shirt.

Tom Cruise:
More effective than ipecac syrup since 1987

It's a shame Justin Timberlake's too busy seducing dukes, romancing penniless writers, and singing about diamonds. Someone needs to bring sexy back again and it shouldn't be Tom "don't mind the lifts in my shoes" Cruise.

"Don't tell him I told you about the lifts."

Sadly, judging by the girlchild's response to the Rock of Ages trailer, I suspect I'll be forced to watch it. At least the music will be good. Too bad my powers of make believe will be challenged and my eyeballs assaulted by Tom Cruise's sweaty nipples. Whatever will I do to clease my brain of such horrific sights?





I'm suddenly feeling a lot better.