The Blue Gardenia learns to sow her blossoms

The march of the dust bunnies: The adventure begins. Earnestly.

So. I admit it: I'd rather be sleeping. I prefer to leave it for others to enjoy the dawn. I do. The sunrise may be exquisite. It may be. But. Frankly, I find sleep more so. Sunsets are gorgeous and at a more attractive time. In my humble opinion.

But. Here I am. Awake. At the keyboard. So I will share this with you, my lovelies — because you want to know, don't you? You simply cannot get through the day without this pertinent and endlessly fascinating knowledge, can you? — what I have been doing. I have been decluttering. Yes. I have.  Not because of Oprah. Not because of Peter Walsh. No.

But because of this: If His Bertness gets a job in a place far, far, far away from sunny AZ, then I want the house to be looking its Sunday Best. Absolutely. It needs its blush, its lipstick, its pretty dotted swiss frock and straw hat if we put it on the market. I want it to have lots of suitors, beaucoup beaus and/or beausettes who will offer lots of money, lots, for our lovely abode. Because it is lovely. And it has breathtaking views.

So. I have been sorting through books. Can this one go to the Friends of the Library book sale? Or must I keep it? Will His Bertness part with it as well? If I pry it out of his hands, will he pry it out of mine. We will be strong. Together. 

Alas, all dust bunnies must go. They are now foes. Absolutely. And we have so many. They are so loyal. They cling to our books. They are very literate, these crazy rabbits. But out they must go. Out, out, out, like Lady Macbeth's spot. Be strong, Denise.  Be strong. Show those fuzzy rascals the Swiffer, the dustpan, the door!

And did my first pillow pass the test?

So. I met with sewing dominatrix-diva Marti. She is teaching me to sew. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say "trying." As in she is trying to teach me to sew.

Anyway. I left my pillow at our table for her inspection while I went to get lemonade. Did I hear her utter the word "perfection" as I traipsed to the counter? Did I?  Perhaps. Perhaps. Although, later, the picking of nits. Deserved, I might add. The stitching was a little sloppy here and there. The pressing of the seams could have been more exact.

Oh well. Try try try again. Or so they say.

Shameless plug: Handywoman apron? Fath halter? We have it.

I've got that '60s groove goin' on. Tom Jones growling on the CD . . . once upon a time there was an Eden . . . once upon a time there was an Eve.

So. We've updated. We have. In a big way. So many pattern additions. And such stylish additions. You don't mind if I toot The Blue Gardenia's horn, do you? 

Mmmm. Well. Back to Tom and Eve. I say that today's Eve should be cool. Calm. Self-collected. Self-possessed. And she might wear Vogue Paris Original 2206, the fabulous A-line designed by Molyneux. Any apple she offers will be clean, polished, organic. A Pink Lady anyone? Or would you prefer a Cameo?

If you've sworn you'll never fall in love again, never ever, you're gonna have to pound in your own nails and tighten your own screws. So you'll need McCall's 1942, a do-it-yourself hobby apron, from 1954. It will help you stay organized. It will help you keep all your tools close at hand. It will never treat you wrong. It will never break your heart. And you'll look so fetching and capable. Should you fall in love again? No. No. That's never gonna happen. It isn't. Is it? Absolutely not. After all, remember what Tom says:  When you fell for someone else, baby, I broke up all inside, and it looks like I'm never gonna fall in love, no, I'm never gonna fall in love again. (Oh, Tom, when your voice breaks like that, I get as gooey as pecan pie.)

If you do decide to fall in love again, then Vogue Paris Original 1176, designed by masterful Jacques Fath in 1952, will have him on his knees begging love me tonight  . . . darling, be kind for I'm out of my mind over you. Of course, you won't change your mind. You're determined. You're strong. You've hardened your heart. Right? Right? I'm waiting for your answer.

So. Listening to Tom has certainly exhausted me. Really. And I've missed House Hunters. Yes. I lead an exciting life. Very.

And, now, for those pesky but necessary details. You knew they were coming, didn't you? New additions always go  at the beginning of each category. And we take Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal to make it easier for you. And, of course, checks, money orders, and cold hard cash, as long as you send it along promptly like good girls and boys. We are so agreeable.

I did it. I stitched. I sewed. I did. Absolutely.

I did it. I know. You doubted me. You thought I was all talk. Didn't you? Go on. Admit it. I forgive you.

So. Blog reader Puffsgirl, who lives right here in  Arizona's Christmas city, agreed to teach me to sew. As long as I did it her way. Which means, in plain English, starting at the beginning. The very. With a pillow. A square pillow. So boring. But this control freak knows that sometimes, to get what you want, to get where you want to go, you must acquiesce. You must give in. You must suffer. A little. Sniff. 

Henry Jones was quite pleased with my first Puffsgirl assignment. He quickly tested it and pronounced it quite comfy. Truly.

And, now, without further ado, the pillow. (Oh, all right. I asserted my individuality and made a rectangle pillow. So there.)

Does organizing the sewing room count as sewing? Mmmm . . .

OK. I confess. I stood up my sewing teacher today. I did. But only because I was counting and checking counting and checking counting and checking patterns for the next update at The Blue Gardenia. 

However, my lovelies, I did do a little sewing work today. Really. I did a bit – albeit tiny – of organizational work on my sewing room. Which is also my office. So there. I'll take that gold foil star now. Thank you.

Statistical error: Pink is the color of slips and jammies

When one is having an anxiety attack about the looming mortgage and the dwindling pantry staples, it helps to look good. Really good. Scrumptiously good. 

So let's look to that Depression-era queen of slink Jean Harlow for inspiration. Her pajamas are glamorous, yet comfortable. So very. Perfect for sitting in front of the computer screen while you're networking on LinkedIn and BrightFuse. Or for lurking behind the draperies while watching the parade of neighbors as they scurry to work at 8 a.m. Oh, envy. Be gone. Now. That's an order.

And in the meantime, dream of lounging about in McCall 8214, copyright 1935. Maybe in cotton lawn. So much easier to launder. Absolutely.

Sigh.

Now, this is the kind of pink slip I like.

Ahhh. So.

As you, my dear readers, know, a pink slip was recently delivered to our lovely abode. I didn't like it. In fact — and on this issue I am emphatic — I didn't like it one little bit.

But this pink slip is a different matter. Entirely. It is ever so lovely. Ever so slinky. Ever so sexy. It's from the 1930s, so, of course, it is cut on the bias. It will caress every curve. Lovingly. 

I see it in a four-ply silk crepe. A deeper pink, with perhaps just a smidgen of salmon. Can you resist it? Just say no. That is the correct answer. The object — or objects — of your affection will thank you. Passionately.

Shameless plug: Dunne. Tierney. Moreau. You decide.

You deserve a treat. In fact, you deserve many. So. Just for you (and, for me, too, because I have a fondness for a roof over my head and food in my larder), it is update time at The Blue Gardenia. Nearly 70 fabulous, amazing vintage patterns have been added for your viewing and shopping pleasure. May I tempt you with a few choice morsels?

You have a wedding to attend. But there will be no silly, frilly chiffon froth for you. Nosiree. You're in an Irene Dunne mood. You want something different. Something sleek. Something sophisticated. Vogue Couturier Design 346, an exclusive design created in Paris more than 70 years ago, fits the bill. Unusual lines. A slim silhouette. And that blouse. What a blouse. On the other hand, perhaps it is a little mean, a little inconsiderate to wear such a beautiful suit to someone else's wedding. After all, no one will be looking at the bride. Because everyone will have their eyes tuned to you.

Butterick 3226, from the 1940s, is a stunner in the Gene Tierney mode. It is understated. Gorgeous. Striking. Absolutely. Eye-capturing button detail (May I suggest bound buttonholes in a contrasting color? Yes. Yes. Yes.) on the hip and collar. Soft gathers at the waist. Figure-caressing skirt to highlight your assets. 

You will channel your inner Jeanne Moreau when you don Vogue Paris Original 1270, circa 1960s, courtesy of Lanvin. It is simple. It is classic. But. It has a twist. Look at the blouse scarf. It is not your ordinary scarf. With an ordinary bow. No. It is — dare I say it, dare I write it — unique. Really. Truly. It is. It references tradition and yet rebels against it. But in a whisper. Ever so quietly. In library tones.

So. There you go. A teaser, if you will, for this update. If these do not delight you, then check out the other additions. I know you will find something. I do. Absolutely. Really. Truly.

And, now, for the tedium. New additions always go  at the beginning of each category. And we take Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal to make it easier for you. And, of course, checks, money orders and cold hard cash. Actually, we take warm soft cash, too. We are so agreeable.

His Bertness is now a statistic. Alas.

Well. It could be worse. Really. Of this I am sure. But His Bertness has now joined the 13 million Americans officially counted as unemployed. Yup. He's been laid off, his job outsourced. Sigh. Whatever happened to loyalty to those who work hard?

For a good look at the erosion of the American Dream, do read America: What Went Wrong by Donald L. Barlett and James B. Steele.

And don't miss Bob Herbert's column, Workers Walk the Plank, in today's New York Times. Excellent.

Little Edie may not dance, but oh how swell she dresses!

I could say I'm back. I'm here. I'm at the keyboard. But you are smart boys and girls. Very. So you know that.

So. I watched the HBO version of Grey Gardens. Admittedly, in bits and pieces. Here and there. But. I was impressed. I confess I was apprehensive. Why would anyone want to remake the Maysles' 1975 documentary version? I could not fathom. It was perfection. Not only that, it made me feel like, well, a rather superlative homemaker. Ready to star in a Swiffer commercial.  

I love the clothes in the new fictionalized version. And you know that I can be quite the ferocious critic when it comes to period pieces. But Catherine Marie Thomas, credited with the costumes, has won the BG seal of approval. Indeedy. 

My favorite gown is the cream satin number worn by beauteous Drew Barrymore, who plays Little Edie with ever so much respect and ever so little camp, at a gathering at Grey Gardens in 1937. The snooty hood and the sumptuous fabric make this gown for me. Absolutely. So lush. So sexy.

If you want to emulate this look — and I do — then may I suggest Vogue 5758? It's a 1940s rendition of the look. But oh how wow the drapey bodice would look in satin. Yes, ma'am.

Shameless plug: Oh, the choices. They boggle the mind. Really.

Ahhhhh, girls and boys. I have wrested myself from the sofa and a Lifetime movie about obsession (don't ask me the name of it - I haven't a clue . . . but I'm sure it was very, very high-toned) to update The Blue Gardenia. Oh, the things I do to make you happy. The sweat. The toil. The sacrifice. Sniff. Sob. Hand me those Puffs, please. Yes, the soothing aloe ones.

Actually. Truth be told (and you know I am dedicated to veracity) I've been working on this update for two weeks. Or so. Selecting patterns. Counting the pieces. Placing them in archival sleeves. And His Bertness, the dear peachy one, has been scanning, coding, grumbling, etc.

But. At last. It is done. So, with no more ado, I bring to you highlights from the latest update:

If you're in a Kate Hepburn mood, you'll love Butterick 8025. These are the slacks of which icons are made. (Well, you might want to toss in a little talent. Or not. Your decision.)

And speaking of decisions. To bare those triceps or not? Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. Oh, don't fret. Don't. There's no need. Because you can have it both ways in Vogue Special Design S-4887. The sleeves detach. Really. You can take them right off. Is that as cool as prewashed baby arugula or what?

And then there is Vogue Couturier Design 1297. An Irene Galitzene ensemble. A coat. A suit. Boardroom ready. Snooty restaurant ready. The very definition of chic, my dahlings. The very.

So. There you go. Check out these gorgeous sewing patterns and all the other stylish additions. Now. Right now. Don't tarry. After all, I worked so hard. His Bertness worked so hard. Just for you. Just for you - and the mortgage company, of course.

And, now, the details. You knew they were coming, didn't you? New additions always go  at the beginning of each category. And we take Mastercard, Visa, Discover and Amex, as well as Paypal to make it easier for you. And, of course, checks, money orders, and cold hard cash. Actually, we take warm soft cash, too. We are so agreeable.

Calling all hip recessionista cats and kittens

Oh, you lucky, lucky readers. The universe has smiled upon you today. It has. I know you'll agree. Because. I am going to share – now, don't run off – another poem with you. Yes. I am just that sort of kind and generous person. Munificent. Unselfish. Magnanimous. Really. I am. Truly. To a fault.

So. I wrote this a few years ago when I took a film noir class at the local community college. It was inspired by the drumming scene in the 1944 movie Phantom Lady. (More background than you wanted, I imagine. But oh well.) Love the movie. Love the book. Now, sit. Be patient. It's a prose poem. Or is it a short story? You decide.

One Hep Kitty

She swings. The bills are piling up the bills are piling up the creditors are calling but she can’t stop swinging. This club. That club. She doesn’t have to pay. She cannot pay. She has no money no money no money none. None. Work? She works. She works. She does. Hear me. She does. Day job. Night job. The money doesn’t go far enough. It stops here. There. There. Here. Never far enough. Never.

She prays. Always. Here. There. In the pantry on her knees. Door shut. On the treadmill in her sneakers in her sweats one foot in front of the other. In the car at the red light at the stop sign at the green light impatient drivers honk behind her. Loud. Rude. Insistent. Go. Go. Get on with it.

She prays. For forgiveness. For her mother. For her father. For her husband. For the phone calls to stop please stop please please please stop. She prays for money more money enough money enough money money money to pay the medical bills the house note the water bill the light bill this bill that bill all the bills please. She puts them on the altar. Take the bills. Pay the bills. Take the bills. Please.

She accuses. Herself. She lambastes. Herself. She hates. Herself. Her worrying hand-wringing penny-pinching money-spending brow-beating bad-choice-making self.

She berates. Herself. Why this why that why here why now. Why now? She’s nice. Now. She’s not that girl. Now. She’s someone else. Now. She’s a woman. Now. Isn’t she? A beneficent woman. A faithful woman. An honest woman. Now. She is!

She doubts. Herself. Her choices. Her husband. God. Sometimes God. Sometimes.

She rhymes. When she’s fretting, she cannot stop. I want my bank account to be in the black. If it’s not there soon, then I will have to pack. Are there enough groceries in the sack? No, there aren’t, there aren’t, will I always lack? Sam I Am, Sam I Am, get back, get back! Stop! she cries. Stop, but she cannot, she is on the rack.

No.

Stop.

Enough.

She prays. She does. Bulldozes over her sporadic doubts. Please God please God please God please. Show me what I’m doing wrong I must be doing something wrong this must be all my fault it must be. It must be. Show me tell me make me understand. So I can fix it. I can fix it? Please. Are you there? You must be there. Show me. Show me. Eradicate my lingering doubts.

She wonders. She ponders. Is this karma? Bad karma coming back like a boomerang like a guest she can’t get rid of like the scarf she gave to Mary who gave it to Tonya who gave it to Lucia who gave it to Elena who gave it back to her? She must have done something to deserve this. Something. Something bad. Really bad. Extremely bad. Horrid.

She gives thanks. Because. Because there are good things. Great things. Grand things. Some things she is thankful for grateful for appreciates like coffee like M&Ms like blue skies like butterflies like health like the sunset like the wind. Like her lover.

It will get better. It must get better. It must.

She swings. As the bills pile up. As the doorbell dings. As the stoplight blinks. As the drivers shout. As the telephone rings. As the fat lady sings. She swings. This club. That club. She cannot pay. She does not pay. She is in her bed. She is in her head.

That Touch of Fashion: Day's the boss, but her clothes deny it

Yes. It's true. Another post about Doris Day. I continue to work my way through her film catalog. (Sheesh! The pointless tasks I set for myself!)

Today, I'll See You in My Dreams, a 1951 pic directed by Michael Curtiz. Ms. Day plays Grace LeBoy Kahn, meddling (or some might say domineering) wife of lyricist Gus Kahn, who wrote – you guessed it, gold stars all around – the lyrics for I'll See You in My Dreams, It Had to Be You, Mammy, and so on. Marjorie Best and Leah Rhodes costumed this film. The clothes tend to the bland. Ever so. Even the evening gowns are dull. My personal favorite is the housewifey waitress dress, or maybe it should be the waitressy housewife dress, shown above.

Now. If this is your look, might I suggest Anne Adams Instructor 4811? Yes. I might. It's my blog. After all. One caveat:  Avoid pink. You'll look like you should be slopping hash or toting a basket of chocolate eggs and bunnies.

Learning to sew: Thank God for Harold Arlen

A friend called. A friend who is a designer. A friend who sews. A friend who lives far away. Too far away to drop in and help me learn to sew. Scaredy cat that I am.

Anyway. This friend  . . . this friend . . . asked me: Have you finished your pajama pants? No. I said. I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. Really. I did. I succeeded. I think.

Then the conversation got worse. This friend . . . this friend . . . who lives too far away to help me learn to sew asked: Have you finished your bathroom curtains? Well. Again, I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. It was difficult. Very. But I do have good manners. I do. And it's a good thing, because I haven't finished my bathroom curtains. I haven't. In fact, I haven't sewn a stitch. I've pinned. I've folded. Or so I recall. It's been so long. Maybe it's a false memory. A memory I wish to be true. Maybe. Anyway. It's been so long . . . so very long . . . that I don't even remember where I've stored them. Drat.

But. Back to the conversation, the inquisition: Again. Again. I had to say no. No! No! No! No. 

So there. There.

Anyway. This time the dream's on me. As Mr. Arlen said.