Refitting = decluttering
I can’t stand the clutter in my apartment and closet anymore! It’s been dragging me down and occupying more mental energy than it is worth. Plus it’s that time of year in Chicago where I’m itching to put on more than my winter black turtleneck and dark cords.
Of course, I’m all supposed to be working on this other little project, but I’ve reached a point where I need another set of hands. And I’m too germy tonight to ask her, new mama of a teeny baby, to risk infection.
So this eve, I’m home with Svengoolie — tonight showing The Blob starring Steve McQueen and a sweet Burt Bacharach theme song all from 1958 — and the sewing machine, wrapping up all those little oddball repairs and fixes that have rendered so much clothing a total drag to wear.
This little sheer purple thrifted blouse had its ugly old button stuck on by the previous owner for ornamental purposes replaced with a cutie little flowered one.
It’s really see through and needs its own proper slip to wear underneath. I’ll table that for the next time SvenG shoes the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Some gray flannel pants needed a good hem. I shortened them with a little cheat technique I’ll post soon.
I started taking in a black top with some gold and purple irises on the front. Started pinning in some darts in the back to give the thing some shape. Then I thought about maybe just posting the thing on etsy as is.
And some black knit thrifted pants that were too big got taken in by the rear seam. Not a glamorous enough repair to photograph.
Must say that Svengoolie makes for excellent company.
I didn’t grow up here with him on Saturday nights. In Philadelphia, we had a similar cheeseball horror show called Saturday Night Dead featuring a busty hostess called Stella. Only Svengoolie has better songs than I remember on SND. And he starts at like 9 p.m. instead of 1 a.m.
Here’s hoping somebody ponies up the cash for the glow-in-the-dark Svengoolie t-shirt in time for my birthday. Though I think I’ve blown my t-shirt karma around here in a stack of boxy shirts destined for refashions but still sitting in the pile.