embracing the 80s

Everyone has something they denounce in public but are secretly proud of or own. Like popped collars and pink polos; the ones "your friend" has and you would never wear in Boston because it emits a beacon of douchery, but somehow it finds its way into your suitcase on a daytrip to the Cape.

Yeah, we're all two-faced. Old news, I know.

But sometimes you can't deny who you are, even if you try. Me, I've been cursed as being born in the 80s, that fabulous era of flock of seagulls haircuts, gold MC Hammer pants, faded blue denim jackets, and shoulder pads. And in terms of fashion, those gold MC Hammer pants should probably stay in the past. Still, I can't deny the appeal of the wearing the most mismatching colors in clashing patterns all in one outfit.

Or the appeal of Marky Mark. Or his brother, Donnie.

So on Saturday morning when I rolled into the Wheelhouse Diner and saw an autographed pictures of Donnie on the wall, I jumped to make this hat. The fabric's been lying around for a while and it's so awfully, perfectly 80s.

And no other fabric was as appropriate to make my first newly designed hat. I'm dropping this off somewhere today - hopefully to someone else who loves the 80s.

bike hat redux

She will consistently fail you when you need her the most. Or at least when I depend on her the most.

She whispered in my ear that everything was fine - good, even! - while I spent sweaty hours at my sewing machine figuring out what worked for the hats and what didn't. She assured me that this was the best way to make the brim, or line the hat, or whatever. She told me everything I wanted to hear.

And then, like most relationships, something happened. I didn't believe in her enough. She didn't want to keep up the endless moral support. She pointed out everything that was wrong with the construction of the hats. I pouted furiously because they just confirmed all of my suspicions and hated her for her dishonesty.

Confidence can be such a fickle bitch.

But a few more frustrated sweaty hours in front of my machine at least gave me some new ideas, and the promise of a better product. The brims are better; hopefully sizing won't be such an issue, and just between you and me, I have some high hopes.

So fuck Confidence. I can roll out new (and better) hats without her.

back at it

A visit to NYC, deadlines, and a promisingly huge project. Those are my excuses of the day.

I have to admit, I'm excited about this project. Not the hats - that's something small and personal (at least for now). But there's something big starting up and it's right down my alley. Yesterday couldn't have been better with emails going back and forth and things being pushed forward. I might become part of something much bigger, and it feels good to know you're useful and part of the team.

And it didn't even rain on my way home.

So today, it's easier to forget that to some people, I'm just not visually interesting enough to spark a sense of curiosity. And I almost don't care that people need to judge everyone else without taking the time to learn the most obvious things about them. Chalk it up to their own insecurities; I'd like to think I'm not boring enough to merit a label.

On a more relevant note, I haven't given out any hats in about a week. I know. But I'm settling down in front of the sewing machine again; there's new fabric to be cut and sewn and hats, hats, hats.

Stay tuned!

Bike Fridays

One reason why I hate public transportation. Or more accurately, one reason I need a bike friday.

And while even my own mental image of myself riding around on a folding bike is absurd, I still would have rocked that thing all over NYC yesterday when, after waiting 10-15 minutes for the 6 train, the metro employee decided to tell a handful of those who asked that the 6 "wasn't running."

(At least I got to go to the Museum of Sex.)

Which brings me to Bike Friday. The one in Beantown that started at the masochistic hour of "before 7am" and promised a police escort to government center. And free breakfast.

It was probably the latter that had me shooting down my usual commute to work to meet up with a convoy in the sticky heat. It was totally worth it. The police made corkscrews at every intersection, and for once, I rode in without anyone trying to kill me, honking at me to move into the door zone of parked cars, or feeling the need to race that one guy who thinks he's faster than me but isn't.

And, you know, there was free breakfast.

Hopefully I'll be leaving hats around at the next one...

measuring up

Measuring up has never really been my forte.

Even literally. Something's always not right. I've mastered the art of miscalculation of seam allowances. Making patterns from my own measurements means drawing, cutting, sewing, making adjustments, ripping it apart, then repeating, repeating, repeating.

It's easier when you have a friend be your "model." You don't have to twist around so much while using three strategically placed mirrors to make sure the back of the shirt you're making is just right while you manage to jab yourself with about ten pins. In, like, your armpit.

But it's also harder to please someone who isn't you. Because everyone judges. I claim not to, but I still will. "The hem line is crooked." "The thread tension's off." "Look at all the mistakes - I can't ever wear this in public."

Which makes making things that much more excruciatingly painful and annoyingly perfectionist.

"Why don't you ever wear what you make?" my best friend once asked me.

"Because I'm too embarrassed by all the mistakes."

"I think you're just OCD."

That's probably true. But I'm still not sure if I'm measuring up, or even measuring correctly. So I'm still worried about the fit of the hats. Are they too small? Too big? What about the brims? Too small? Too floppy? Too...something?

Am I measuring up yet?

...still cheating

I'm still on that cheating high where you feel totally awesome because at least one person is sweating you hard enough not to care that you might actually be dating someone else.

Like when you get compliments and looks because of your shiny new bike and you totally forget about your trusty old beater and how you're not even going to look at that new ride once it starts snowing.

Or like when the cute bike mechanic abandons the bike s/he's fixing to look at yours. (But come on, like some dude's mountain bike can really compete with your carbon frame, brakeless, fixed gear with 52/12 gearing, 650 on the front and 700 on the back?)

So I sent this hat out - to a (yet) undisclosed location. Via mail.

My bike probably hates me. But USPS is loving me...right?