Curved needles are so helpful. I repaired my tattered-beyond-presentable vintage fur coat and beloved black cashmere pop-top gloves with the assistance of one of these friends yesterday. So satisfying.
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jezebel, here, there, and everywhere
dearests
- alice engel
- alice mary lynch - dollmaker
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- so much to tell you
- the life cinematic
- the ugly earring
- vintage kids' book my kid loves
- we could grow up together
Blog Archive
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2009
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January
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- Eau de Toilet.
- Domino, April 2005-January 2009.
- The mauve room
- Flora, Fauna, and Merriweather Moving, Inc.
- In flight, alight
- A humble hail to the chief
- That Shining Tree of Life
- Andrew Wyeth. July 12, 1917-Jan 16, 2009.
- Kittens called Twiglet and Fellini, and pots of fl...
- Ode to a small thing (not Teepee)
- The Recently Deflowered Girl: The Right Thing to S...
- My castle, my books.
- Ladies Only
- Chilled white wine and plates of pickles, down on ...
- Happy Birthday!
- Decay of the highest order
- My castle, my books.
- Belated tidings.
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3 comments:
Yes, Jezebel, the curved needle is a godsend! I have framed several of my embroidery pieces, only to discover a loose thread hanging from the front side when I picked it up from the framer's. Thanks to the curved needle, I was able to tuck it back into the wrong side of the work.
I adore your blog. Your profile says you live in Brooklyn. I love Brooklyn. I used to live in Williamsburg - in 1993, before it was cool. Getting off the L train at Bedford late at night, the little old Polish ladies would stick their heads out of the upper windows watching to make sure I weaved my way home safely... and there was nary a New York Times to be found. Lots and lots of yummy kielbasa, though!
Oh my goodness! I am obsessed with your blog! I am so excited you visited! And your embroideries melt me.
When I first moved to Carroll Gardens, I got similar treatment from the Italian ladies on my block- they called us "the girls," and we were a bit like specimens in a wunderkammer. My grandfather grew up in Williamsburg (my great-grandfather worked at the Navy Yards.) When I tell him what it's like now, he can only shake his head and say, "All we wanted to do was get out of that shithole." And when I ask him if he had a sink in his bathroom (as you know, many railroads do not) his answer: "We were lucky to have a toilet in our bathroom."
Off to belatedly link to "A Bloomsbury Life" and pen an ode to you...
Your grandfather CRACKS me up! I nearly spit out my piece of Dubble Bubble.
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