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It never seizes to amaze me how much stock I put into other people's opinion of me. An entire day can feel better just because a person told me my article for an in-larp newspaper was fantastic (still get a fuzzy feeling inside just from writing it down). Suddenly the fact that my house looks like its been robbed by someone looking for a magic rock and thus ripping my house to pieces in the process, the fact that I arrived at work an hour late, the fact that today's style looks like a mix between a 40yrs old mom and a fashion-geek, doesn't seem very important since someone told me I write fantastic...someone could call it sad, I choose to call it charming...
On a different note I'm making a 1887 dress in a lovely white flowered cotton fabric. I hate it. It is absolutely impossible to work with, and my days are spent at work, with evenings trying to fit the dress on me, with help from my lovely boyfriend, but it still doesn't work. BUT: yesterday the arms were fitted, and today I'm starting on the skirts, and soon it will be done...I'll be sure to post pictures before I burn the dress...It will be dead and I will be happy...
On a different note I'm making a 1887 dress in a lovely white flowered cotton fabric. I hate it. It is absolutely impossible to work with, and my days are spent at work, with evenings trying to fit the dress on me, with help from my lovely boyfriend, but it still doesn't work. BUT: yesterday the arms were fitted, and today I'm starting on the skirts, and soon it will be done...I'll be sure to post pictures before I burn the dress...It will be dead and I will be happy...
