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I never think of myself as having a fandom name because I'm so not into the Transmet fandom (which reminds me: get first three books back from Matty before he eats them). Then I see someone with the name structure of ____luvs____ or mrs____ and I start laughing and then I remember that yeah, technically, I do have a fandom name, but in five years (or one LJ-Jump-the-shark) I don't see myself being upset by that.
On the other hand, the nickname that a lot of my friends call me was picked up before I realised that the character it comes from (Cass, from Preacher) was about as horrible a person as it was possible to be so I've kind of already done that "and there was goat blood in the bathtub and a kilo of heroin on the toilet seat and no one was sure what the quintuplets were for, but the shotgun was obvious" moment. You know, when the person you named yourself after turns out to be gay and yet anti-gay-rights or something. When you figure out that they really do have feet of clay.
Also, I don't define myself in the name - it's not cassluvshustlers or something (though that would be hilarious), which also makes me think of it as not-a-fandom-journal-name.
***
I want to go home.
I want to go home and roll around in the orgy of sewing that I have to do. I want to scrap the Fucking Top from my gypsy pattern (not that I can wear the vest without looking retarded, at least so far) and start over. I want to finish That Damn Wedding Shirt. I want to pull out the bones from my bodice and re-set them and re-set the sleeve heads in two places and really clip'n'press the seams and put in the twill tape and close it all and find out if it'll fit when I put the buttons on.
Also, I can do all this because, thanks to AAA Sewing and Vacuum's truckload sale, I bought a Pfaff serger for less than half price this week. No more will there be The Instance Of The Faille, which is a lovely fabric that looks marvellous in a Victorian context and is almost definitely period (though I care not for that, since I'm making the bodice out of Ye Olde-Worlde Acetate) but - and this is the bad part - comes apart if you look at it. Seriously. The moment I started cutting it I realised that I either had to finish it then - fortunately it was only six seams of any length and a ruffle that I could do pretty easily - because I could not even transport it over to my mother's house to serge it.
No more will there be The Instance Of The Fucking Top where I cut it out and can't serge it because I really don't want to switch the serger threads (it is a painful task, akin to...well, every metaphor in my mind is disgusting, so we'll leave it at "painful") and that's using the method where you knot the threads together. There is a reason it comes pre-threaded, let's say that. But the FT is in white and the material is muslin, so, as three of you will realise, black thread will show.
I may never leave my house again. In December, I will make a duct-tape double and then I will be set.
***
Curses to the intranet for blocking the Truly Victorian site. There is no porn there. And there may be pictures of people in their underwear, but given that I went out to the street the other day in bloomers, chemise, shoes, corset, and stockings, and had more clothing on than many people had all summer, I don't think it's like Thong-a-rama or something. Thong World. Thong City.
***
I want to write up my dress diary for this journal, but that's something that would be facilitated by being able to take pictures. I think I have a camera, and I bet it even has film, but you underestimate my dedication if you think I want to take pictures.
***
In short, today I want to look at pretty victorian stuff and I am being prevented from doing so. Not happy about that.
***
The chainmail proceeds apace. When I have to use 140+ rings to make a piece of mail the size of, quite literally, the first joint on my index finger, something is wrong. And I don't mean the first joint around - I mean the dorsal? (the bit with the nail) side of my finger. But I am already considering ordering the many thousands of rings I'd need to make a Japanese Lace Mail Collar, so obviously I'm on to something here. And when I take up weaving, with a lap-loom, no one will be surprised, given that I am now interested in making really fine wool for next year's costume.
***
Note to self: figure out where to start on next year's costume. Start by reading sourcebooks. Decide on whether to attend costume college or not. I want to go, but I don't know that I want to drive to California again, and I certainly can't get on a plane with all the crap I'd have to take, plus the plane ticket + annoyance would probably be about as much as driving there, even in summer. Especially if someone wants to rideshare, like from Seattle or Portland.
***
Am informally - as ever - Nanoing this year, with the intention of finishing the damn book. I think I won't be posting it to LJ, so if you have a burning desire to read it and you promise to comment on it at some point, I'll email it to you. I found out last year that I was frustrated by the lack of comments on what I posted, but at the same time I had no ability to comment on other peoples' posts that I read, so there you have the horns of the lemma. I shall solve it by neither signing up for reading other peoples' journals, nor putting anyone into that position re: mine. It's not that I don't love and trust all of you (except that one person), it's that it's not fair of me to get upset that no one is commenting on my brilliance when I can't even comment on other peoples'. It's me being a hypocrite.
***
"We sell thongs - and that's all!"
On the other hand, the nickname that a lot of my friends call me was picked up before I realised that the character it comes from (Cass, from Preacher) was about as horrible a person as it was possible to be so I've kind of already done that "and there was goat blood in the bathtub and a kilo of heroin on the toilet seat and no one was sure what the quintuplets were for, but the shotgun was obvious" moment. You know, when the person you named yourself after turns out to be gay and yet anti-gay-rights or something. When you figure out that they really do have feet of clay.
Also, I don't define myself in the name - it's not cassluvshustlers or something (though that would be hilarious), which also makes me think of it as not-a-fandom-journal-name.
***
I want to go home.
I want to go home and roll around in the orgy of sewing that I have to do. I want to scrap the Fucking Top from my gypsy pattern (not that I can wear the vest without looking retarded, at least so far) and start over. I want to finish That Damn Wedding Shirt. I want to pull out the bones from my bodice and re-set them and re-set the sleeve heads in two places and really clip'n'press the seams and put in the twill tape and close it all and find out if it'll fit when I put the buttons on.
Also, I can do all this because, thanks to AAA Sewing and Vacuum's truckload sale, I bought a Pfaff serger for less than half price this week. No more will there be The Instance Of The Faille, which is a lovely fabric that looks marvellous in a Victorian context and is almost definitely period (though I care not for that, since I'm making the bodice out of Ye Olde-Worlde Acetate) but - and this is the bad part - comes apart if you look at it. Seriously. The moment I started cutting it I realised that I either had to finish it then - fortunately it was only six seams of any length and a ruffle that I could do pretty easily - because I could not even transport it over to my mother's house to serge it.
No more will there be The Instance Of The Fucking Top where I cut it out and can't serge it because I really don't want to switch the serger threads (it is a painful task, akin to...well, every metaphor in my mind is disgusting, so we'll leave it at "painful") and that's using the method where you knot the threads together. There is a reason it comes pre-threaded, let's say that. But the FT is in white and the material is muslin, so, as three of you will realise, black thread will show.
I may never leave my house again. In December, I will make a duct-tape double and then I will be set.
***
Curses to the intranet for blocking the Truly Victorian site. There is no porn there. And there may be pictures of people in their underwear, but given that I went out to the street the other day in bloomers, chemise, shoes, corset, and stockings, and had more clothing on than many people had all summer, I don't think it's like Thong-a-rama or something. Thong World. Thong City.
***
I want to write up my dress diary for this journal, but that's something that would be facilitated by being able to take pictures. I think I have a camera, and I bet it even has film, but you underestimate my dedication if you think I want to take pictures.
***
In short, today I want to look at pretty victorian stuff and I am being prevented from doing so. Not happy about that.
***
The chainmail proceeds apace. When I have to use 140+ rings to make a piece of mail the size of, quite literally, the first joint on my index finger, something is wrong. And I don't mean the first joint around - I mean the dorsal? (the bit with the nail) side of my finger. But I am already considering ordering the many thousands of rings I'd need to make a Japanese Lace Mail Collar, so obviously I'm on to something here. And when I take up weaving, with a lap-loom, no one will be surprised, given that I am now interested in making really fine wool for next year's costume.
***
Note to self: figure out where to start on next year's costume. Start by reading sourcebooks. Decide on whether to attend costume college or not. I want to go, but I don't know that I want to drive to California again, and I certainly can't get on a plane with all the crap I'd have to take, plus the plane ticket + annoyance would probably be about as much as driving there, even in summer. Especially if someone wants to rideshare, like from Seattle or Portland.
***
Am informally - as ever - Nanoing this year, with the intention of finishing the damn book. I think I won't be posting it to LJ, so if you have a burning desire to read it and you promise to comment on it at some point, I'll email it to you. I found out last year that I was frustrated by the lack of comments on what I posted, but at the same time I had no ability to comment on other peoples' posts that I read, so there you have the horns of the lemma. I shall solve it by neither signing up for reading other peoples' journals, nor putting anyone into that position re: mine. It's not that I don't love and trust all of you (except that one person), it's that it's not fair of me to get upset that no one is commenting on my brilliance when I can't even comment on other peoples'. It's me being a hypocrite.
***
"We sell thongs - and that's all!"
