Apron of the Day — Carmen Miranda

Because I’ve been suffering Blogger’s Block since New Year’s Day, doesn’t mean I haven’t been making aprons. Hellz, no! But because my beloved camera died — since replaced by my daughter and son-in-law (Honor and John, you are the best!,) I haven’t kept out with the photographic record.

Truth is, I’ve been experimenting . Everything from shashiko embroidery on handkerchief linen: because I love handwork

 

To flouncy little items like this, my “Carmen Miranda” which used up some cheery scraps, is adorable, and was a PIA to sew.

My supermodel, Lou Zoolander, has been a Drama King. “Not until I get a haircut!” “You want to shoot me outside, and it’s 48 degrees?” “Call my agent — I don’t roll out of bed for anything less than first crack at the “Times” crossword puzzle!.” So, he got a haircut, I shot him inside, and he got the puzzle.

 

The fabric:

 

 

Below,The Apron, which is a bad fit for Loulander’s shape. This is a girlie apron, which would be improved with defined waist and hips, lipstick, and kitten heels. The talent wasn’t buying it.

Don’t Worry Baby — It’ll be Fun Fun Fun

So, it’s in the high forties in the ‘Ville, I’m in a creative slump and I miss California. The Rx was lying there, unjacketed, slipping around on our tower of cds.

The Best of the Beach Boys. Oh man, I was fourteen again, frugging in the basement rec room of our house in Trois-Rivieres Quebec. I’d never heard of a girl named Rhonda — my friend’s names ran to Elizabeth, Joanne, Kathy and Debbie. I liked my school fine, but being true to it was an alien concept. I’d swum only in fresh water, never seen a surfboard except on a Beach Boys album cover, and “Tach it up, tach it up, Buddy gonna shut you down,” might as well have been Finnish.

It was mysterious sunshine, a teenager existence I couldn’t imagine. (I did realize they’d ripped off Chuck Berry, big time.) I totally got “In My Room.”

When I got to college the Beach Boys dropped acid  in quantities that made my two terrifying trips look like two grains of sand on Manhattan Beach. The upside: “Sloop John B” and “Good Vibrations,” and that’s a huge upside. The downside is that Brian Wilson went nuts.

When my daughter moved to Los Angeles I understood at last that blissed-out, sunny, surfy SoCal car-driven culture. I understood the close harmony singing. “Surfin Safari” made sense. So did “Little Old Lady from Pasadena.”

And, oh yes, “Good Vibrations.”

So, the cold and grey has disappeared and I’m grooving to “Dance, Dance Dance” as I type this. The Beach Boys are the sonic equivalent to those bright lights that fight SAD in dark northern climes. So bright, so happy, so about dancing and surfing and driving fast. I’m not up to all of this stuff, especially the driving, but the sunshine, the surf, the heroes and villains are making me hear a V-8 purr and smell salt water and feel the clouds lift. The Beach Boys are aural Prozac, irresistible, the remedy for Celtic genes. Cheap sunshine.My new cure (and old cure) for the grim and grey. If only everything was so simple. Wouldn’t it be nice?