Too Full To Fuck

It is one of life's harsh realities that whenever I go out to eat for Valentine's Day, my mate of the moment (yes, the tradition predates my husband) and I always return home stuffed to the brink of explosion. My friend Miriam earlier pointed out that she would sooner forgo the fancy dinner aspect of V.D. (opting instead for a quick Thai meal with her boyfriend and some strippers/Mexican wrestling after), as the fancier places are quite often filled with "sappy, smiling couples."

Obviously she has never seen me and my husband at the trough at a fancy restaurant.

The evening starts out decently enough. We are seated, order wine (generally red) or a "signature cocktail". If we order different things, we discreetly trade sips. Then the dinner order is placed, after much deliberation, as I find it hard to commit to anything other than marriage. Prix fixe or a la carte, it doesn't matter-- whichever shows the most promise. We acknowledge that it's probably too much, but oh well... it's a special occasion! We munch daintily on bread; then, the amuses-bouches arrive. After the requisite feigning of surprise ("Oh, what a treat! Free stuff rules!"), the artfully-arranged morsels are popped into our mouths, and our lips smack in glee at the promise of things to come.

First course arrives. Shovel into mouth, crunch crunch, yum yum. Second course arrives; lather, rinse, REPEAT. At this point our eyes begin to glaze over and one of us will undoubtedly exclaim, "Wow, I think I'm a little full!" Gastrointestinal comfort and niceties, however, don't really hold much stock at our romantic dinner for two, and it is quite apparent to any casual observer that sappy smiles and googly eyes have no place at our table. Unless, of course, they pertain to nausea.

So, with the delicacy of wolves, on we proceed to the third course. After its perfunctory decimation, it is only then that there is time for smiles. Mouths half open, eyelids at half mast, smiles that say as much about the condition of our stomachs (painfully engorged) as they do about the quality of our meal (absolutely exquisite).

Needless to say, the last thing we want to do after this debacle is fuck. We arrive at home, staggering through the apartment with vacant stares; a little buzzed, a little sleepy, our tongues still warm with the memories of what we so wantonly shoved down our respective hatches a mere hour or so ago. Putting the remnants of pre-dinner lustful thoughts out to pasture, we amble off to bed, painfully sated. And it is here, facing away from each other in conjoined discomfort, that we most experience the pleasure/pain dichotomy of love, a sensation that will endure at least until the next bowel movement.

Stitching Myself Into An Early Grave.

I love clothes. From sample sales in dusty warehouses to digging in the racks of even dustier thrift stores, one could say that I definitely go the extra mile to find one-of-a-kind pieces. This involves much more suffering, tissues, and Claritin than one would normally associate with shopping, as I am ridiculously allergic to dust. In my search for easier, less sniffle-inducing ways to acquire vintage clothing, it was only a matter of time before I became interested in the fine art of sewing. What's more retro than DIY?

So, with visions of the exquisite creations I would undoubtedly churn out in no time (HA HA HA!) dancing in my head, I eagerly signed up for my first sewing class last December. To my dismay, I soon discovered the dark side of this quaint little hobby, the traditional domain of quilters, of the grandmothers of yore.

If you have any doubt in your spatial reasoning abilities, RUN. Run fast, hard, and in the opposite direction of the sewing table. If you are the sort who cannot cut in a straight line to save your life, I would encourage you to run even faster. And finally, if the idea of being ridiculously meticulous makes you break out in hives, I would strongly suggest attaching rockets to your back to speed you up on your way out.

As the proud owner of all three of those dreaded traits I struggled horribly through that first class. Four weeks later, however, I was the proud creator of a pair of pajama pants. So far, they have been worn and washed 6 times or so and are still in one wearable piece. Just last Tuesday I completed my second sewing class and my second Fabric Baby, an A-line skirt. Both projects were tinged with the stench of frustration as my lack of innate sewing sense battled with my strong desire to get to the point where I'd actually be producing clothes that I could wear in public. Almost too frequently, I found myself staring at the heap of fabric and cloth on my table with the unpleasant feeling that there might as well be a large blinking neon sign over my head that said, quite clearly, "I SUCK." And I was haunted by the spirits of a million cursing sewing grannies as my already extensive use of profanities increased exponentially every time I came face to face with a sewing machine.

Yet, for some reason, here I am, with 6 more weeks of sewing to look forward to, and a DRESS which I have yet to construct. There are measurements to be taken, fabric to be purchased, patterns to be cut out and pieced together. And, glutton for punishment that I am, there will be pain, lots of it, frustration by the gallon, and a dollop of despair to top it all off. There really is nothing more depressing than attempting to do something at which you so innately SUCK, and ultimately, nothing more rewarding than completing a project that more or less resembles CLOTHING.

Testing, One Two Three. First post for me...

Jumping on the bloggy bandwagon.

Gotta love this "Dear Diary" crap.