Oh, Good Grief.

I drive myself crazy. Really. I can't leave well enough alone, and once I get something in my head, it won't go away. Oh, sure--eventually I'll forget it if I ignore it long enough. But it's the "ignore it long enough" part that trips me up. I swear I have the same brain wiring as a junkie or some creepy pervert with some obsession they know they should leave alone but just can't. They start thinking about whatever-it-is, and the urge gets stronger and stronger, and the next think they know they're in the alley, shooting up Drano.

Or whatever. But we won't go there.

So I'm sitting in bed this morning, happily stitching. I've taken care of some email, sent some ideas out into the world. I worked hard yesterday and met all the week's deadlines because, theoretically, Friday afternoon is my day to play. Meaning: go to the thrift and/or consignment stores to see if there's anything there. Inspiration or cheap stuff made of silk or leather or linen or 100% wool, which are the fabrics I'm always looking for. Cos if I can get a leather skirt for $2 or a linen shirt for $1.50, I can't pass that up. I wash and dry it and put it into the bin. You know I have bins for all these, right? Silk, linen, leather (almost too full to shut--those suede skirts that were in style in the 80s just don't sell any more, and I have a ton of those) felted wool (which reminds me: there's a turquoise jacket sitting on the front porch that needs to be fulled).

Anyway, so this afternoon the vet comes to write licenses for the cats--they get a two-year vaccine but have to have tags every year. After that, I can do what I want. Not that I always do--there's always something else that needs to be done. But still: I'm sitting in bed stitching and thinking of what I might do. Go hunt for some skeins of #166, since Michael's is out and has been for ever a month. See if I can find a copy of the current magazines, since Barnes and Noble no longer has anyone to stock magazines and is several weeks behind. (The want ads in the Midland paper go on for pages, while the houses-for-rent ads number fewer than a dozen total. Don't move here. There are jobs, sure, but you'll be living in your car in the parking lot of The Dreaded Wal-Mart. Seriously. We went to dump the recycling the other night, and the parking lot looked like a trailer park. Soon they'll be setting up swing sets and barbecue grills.)

ANYWAY. So I'm sitting there in bed stitching and the idea popped into my head, "I want a gypsy jacket." I have no idea where this came from--I know nothing about what a gypsy jacket would look like, and although *now* I'm completely intrigued by the idea of an entire gypsy wardrobe, I have no idea what that might include. But once that idea was in my head--"I want a gypsy jacket"--I was sunk. I sat there, and my brain took off on its own and arrived here:

Now, here's the path I think it took: gypsy jacket sounds a little like "Gypsy Johnny," and when we went to the Magnolia Pearl studio a couple years ago to interview Robin and John, they'd just launched her line of men's clothing, called Gypsy Johnny (warning: music will play!)

When we drove up and got out of the truck, John came out to meet us in the most fabulous pair of patched and appliquéd worn-to-threads Levi's. I admired them lavishly, and he said, "Yeah, she had to patch them so my testicles wouldn't fall out, and then she just kept going."

And I was like, "And who are you, exactly?" He turned out to be a very nice guy, but you know you're on alert when a guy uses the word "testicles" in the first two minutes you've known him.

NEVERMIND. Jesus. See? This is how I drive myself crazy. I have GOT to learn not to write in stream-of-consciousness meaderings. But if I wrote formally, with a thesis and all, then it would seem like, you know, Work.

So I'm sitting there stitching, remember. And I think gypsy jacket = Gypsy Johnny = Magnolia Pearl = EUREKA! I found it: the velvet duster Robin gave me when we left.

First they offered me a pair of ruffled linen bloomers, the kind Robin wears all the time (that's Robin on the right, and yes, she was wearing something like this the day we were there). I squealed in delight and thanked them profusely. John asked if I'd actually wear them. "Oh,  of course! I love them!" He pressed: but would I actually *wear* them?

Um, well, I'm not really a bloomer kind of a woman. But I love them! And thank you so much!

But, no. They insisted I pick out something I would wear. And I could not resist this gorgeous rayon and, I think, silk velvet duster. Such a gorgeous color. So soft. So drape-y.

Of course, once I got it home, I had to remove all the lace. Heavy, gorgeous, drape-y lace. But I am not a lace kind of woman, so off it came. I gave it away. And it needed something else--it was too plain with the lace gone. So I stitched on a flannel heart and some embroidery stitches, and then I made some funky bias tape from some hand-dyed silk velvet ribbon from Maria Teresa Stoa. And I stitched and appliquéd and beaded and got it all perfect. It was too formal before; now it was nice and funky, like I like things. Just perfect.

I never, ever wore it. How come? Because it looks like a robe to me. That length, that popular-for-everything length--it's just astoundingly unflattering. If something is ankle length, it can pass as elegant, and if it's calf-length, it's functional. but that halfway-between length is just, frankly, dumpy. It cuts your calves in two, making them stubby, and it just doesn't flatter anyone. So many clothes are made that length, and I just hate it--it seems I spend half my sewing time cutting things off just a couple inches so they hit just below the knee (which I learned from my mother when I was a kid, for some unknown reason), is the most flattering length for almost everyone. (Never mind that I wore mini-skirts anyway.)

So I'm sitting there in bed stitching, right? And I get it into my head that I've got to cut this off and make it into a jacket. This scares the crap out of me: what if I ruin it? What if it starts unraveling? What if I can't make it do what I want it to do? What if I hate it? What if, what if, what if. . . .

And then I smack myself upside the head and go, "Well, then you won't have it to wear, and you'll have to cut it up and use it as yardage. Which means you'll have some really lovely velvet to use for something else. And guess what? You've had this hanging on the hook by the bedroom door for years, and you've Never. Worn. It. So you don't 'have it to wear' ANYWAY. Fool."

And then I smack myself again, just because.

So instead of doing any of the things I should be doing given that contractors will arrive at my house in less than 72 hours and that I should have already stowed away that sewing machine in there (the other two are already stowed, but you just never know when you're going to have to have a sewing machine at the ready, and see? It's going to come in handy!), it appears that I'm going to go in there and set up the table, get out the measuring tape and the Ginghers shears and do something rash and poorly-thought-out, just so my brain will quit going, "Come on! Come on! Let's do it! Now! Now, now, nownownownow! Let's go! Come on, come on, come on!"

My brain is not unlike a four year old in the midst of a sugar rush. Oy.

Please wish me luck. If I never come back, y'all will know why~~