Single Entity

This has been a weekend of awesome! In addition to doing lots of schoolwork, I have:

1) Made a dress (see left -- like the red one, but longer). As of Friday night, it was cut. As of Saturday night, it is 100% done, and all the seams are finished.








2) Finished a dress. Or, more accurately, saved a dress. What I had: a dress that I'd made that I really liked -- except for the HUGE clown-like sleeves, which resulted partially from seamstress error (dur, if I remove 3" of width from the garment, I need to remove it from the sleeve too!), and partially from the 1970's pattern (see left). Yes, those were some puffy sleeves. So I removed them and made it sleeveless. Success!







3) I also mended some jeans, and fixed my stapler. Sweet.

If I'd remembered that the shuttle into town ran on Saturday, not Sunday, I'd have the thread a lining for another dress, plus thread to attach some patches to a jacket. How did I manage to leave home with *no* white thread? It's an utter mystery.

I like dancing. This should be clear by now, if you know me, or even if you've read what I've written on this blog from time to time. Today, however, I want to talk about social dancing. I mean by that Social Dancing, the kind with steps and everything. I went to a swing dance every Sunday of last semester, and I found out something very interesting about myself. First of all, the population of a New England social dance is mostly older folks. Not nearly everyone, but a significant white-haired contingent, of an age to have done swing dancing when it was originally in vogue.

To tie into my post on dressing, I always went to the swing dance in a skirt or dress, frequently one that I'd made. First of all, I like wearing dresses, feeling feminine. Second of all, it's just more fun to dance in something with a little swish. I was on most occasions the most "dressed-up" female in the room.

I had only been attending for a couple weeks when I started getting comments from some of the older gentlemen, along the lines of "it's good to see you, and you're looking very fine as always." I think that in some way, I reminded them of how women dressed when they were younger, a certain sense of decorum and, well, being dressed for the world. There was one gentleman in particular who told me it was a treat to see a young lady in a nice dress.

What this led to, in turn, was that I liked eliciting that reaction. I'm making a lot of assumptions here, but I liked giving those guys a reminder of their younger days. I liked dancing with them, liked thanking them effusively when the dance was over, and hopefully giving them that feeling of dancing with someone who might just be interested in you, because even though I had no interest in that way, it's how I think I act when I dance. I have no confirmation or denial from an outside source, but I laugh, I giggle, I smile until my face hurts, and I genuinely enjoy every second of that dance, and that's a little how flirting feels to me. And though it feels like hubris to say it, or assumption of more power than I actually have, I liked the thought that I might be bringing those men the feeling that a young woman was interested in them, though nothing would come of it, of giving the barest hints of a sexual consciousness.

I suppose the best way to say it is that I felt that I was in some way spreading my joy in dancing to the people who danced with me, and I sincerely hope that's true, because I hope that everyone someday feels at least a part of how I feel when I dance, even if they find it in their own individual ways.

I like to be dressed. And by that, I don't mean that I like to be wearing clothes (though this too is true). I like to feel good about what I'm wearing, to have put more thought into it than "are those pants clean?" I especially like to have some little quirk or amusing quality about what I'm wearing -- that's why you'll occasionally see me wearing multiple pieces of clothing with a common thread at one time. Example: I pretty much always wear my owl necklace if I'm wearing another piece of clothing with an owl on it. If I'm really having a good time with this, I match my underwear too, but we'll just leave that little detail alone.

The thing is, I like to feel put together, just a little polished, though I'm interpreting that word very differently than my mental image of "suit and pearls." It's both a mark of kindness to myself, and to the greater world, because when I'm put together, I feel just a little bit happier, just a little bit more self-confident, and as a result, a whole hell of a lot less prone to grumpiness. I like to feel cute. I can admit that small vanity.

None of this is to say, naturally, that I don't have my sloppy days. Days when I stay in my sweatpants all day, when I might be wearing the same shirt from yesterday, the shirt I might have slept in. Sometimes, it's just about being really cozy. Sometimes, it's just too damn cold to change. (oh, Ohio.)

In the long run, though, I like to feel good about what I'm wearing. Maybe that's why I make so many of my clothes -- I can make exactly what suits me.

Food for thought:

R.W. Southern said that

a historian should aim at satisfying the same emotional and intellectual needs as a novelist and poet.

Discuss*.


*Not that I am obsessed with this general theme. Not at all. Of course not.

1) You inadvertently pronounce "tomato" as "tomahto".
2) When you say "pasta", the vowel is no longer the "a" of "father" but that of "man".
3) You are momentarily confused when someone from home talks about "pants", because you've come to accept that "pants" means underpants rather than trousers ("sweatpants" are a ludicrous and mind-boggling idea in this context).
4) Your inner monologue develops a broad Scottish accent, even though you cannot actually pronounce it. Or even understand it.

That is all.

Oh my god, I had the best day ever yesterday. For serious.

I started off in Pittenweem, where I got the key to St. Fillan’s cave from an adorable little café called The Cocoa Tree, and then proceeded to wander down this little wynd to the cave where St. Fillan supposedly lived during the 8^th century, writing sermons in the dark by the light of his luminous left arm. I felt all daring and adventurous using the giant old-fashioned key to unlock a gate that felt like it hadn’t been opened in years. It took several tries to make the key turn, and after all that effort, I was ready for some 8^th century arm-luminosity. It actually only took about five minutes to see the entire cave, which was not all that impressive, but I spent a good twenty minutes just sitting on the ground, trying to imagine what it would have been like if I were an 8^th century monk with a luminous left arm (I kept hoping that my arm would start to glow, but no luck). In the end, I was just sitting in the middle of a cave. But just when I was leaving, I turned off the electrical lights they’d installed in the centuries following St. Fillan and went back across the antechamber and into the cave itself…and froze with terror. Even though I knew I was the only living thing in there, with the exception maybe of some bats that I could hear squeaking in the chamber above, I was convinced there was some kind of danger in there. I could feel my heart beat just a little harder when I heard footsteps passing outside of the gate. All my senses were suddenly on edge. Now, this says one of two things: Either I am a giant coward who is afraid of the dark (quite possible) or times were a lot more terrifying back in the 8^th century when lighting was hard to come by, luminous arms aside. It totally trumped my imagination exercise of the past twenty minutes. What a feat, Fillan, sitting in the dark all the time, even with the light of your luminous left arm. Kudos.

After that, I walked about a mile and a half to Anstruther, where I got the UK’s best fish and chips (officially so!) and then looked around for the Smuggler’s Inn, where a sex club called the Beggar’s Benison used to meet in the 18^th century (I first learned about it from this Slate article). It turns out that the Inn had closed just last week, so I went around the corner to another old-timey looking pub called the Dreel Tavern. Walking in, I was hit with the overwhelming atmosphere of “old”. There was a fire crackling, the décor was very 18^th century, there were old-timey lanterns covering the lights, and the ceiling beams were exposed, a sure sign that this was a relic from the olden days. It was a cozy little place, and possibly my favorite pub in Scotland.

There was a crew of regulars, and the woman tending the bar knew them all by name and didn’t need to be told what they wanted to drink when they came in. One would enter, she’d already have his drink in hand, ready for him. The only other woman at the bar was a wry local who bantered easily with the others. I liked her right away, and even more when she saw my notebook and began spicing up the conversation so I could have something better to eavesdrop and take notes on. Eventually I began to ask questions about the history of the place, and they were all local history buffs and began to tell me overwhelmingly all about the history. Apparently the Dreel Tavern is the oldest building in Anstruther – James V of Scotland stayed there in the 16^th century – and is haunted. Most of the places around there have quite a history with smuggling, as well. And the Beggar’s Benison…well, I didn’t get much information about that. One of them had read a book on the subject – the one, I’m sure, who’s mentioned in the Slate article – and all he would tell me was that “they were a bunch of nobles involved in a lot of debauchery”. I’m sure he wasn’t very eager to discuss a sex club, even a historical one, with someone young enough to be his daughter. Everyone assumes, for some reason, that I’m an innocent young lady, which makes it difficult to get information about sex clubs. They did, however, make up for this by telling me about the Pittenweem witches, who were apparently connected with St. Fillan’s cave and were held, after they were accused, in a church that I’d walked past three or four times that day. One of the men even went back to his house to fetch a book about the witches, which he then gave to me (although it’s difficult for me to solicit information about sex clubs, I am apparently a target for free books).

I am excited to go back to Pittenweem after I’ve read the book and take another look around. Perhaps I will sit in the cave again and imagine what it was like to be a woman accused of witchcraft, and perhaps knowing more about the history of the cave will transform it from an ordinary cave to a terrifying cell. So, although my investigation veered off course, I had a most informative and exciting day. I call it a success.

Oh, and then I came home and visited the Pictish cemetery at midnight, just in case I hadn’t had enough history.

I have just discovered that treacle is like unto molasses, which they don't have in the UK. This means that I can make delicious things like molasses crinkle cookies and gingerbread!

Also, I just gave a gingerbread cake to the flat downstairs, whose cake tin I always borrow and keep for months on end, and they were happy, and that made me happy. I don't like to return a pan empty, and besides, this way they keep letting me borrow it. "This is the most useful piece of equipment we own!" Luke said when I gave it to them.

I enjoy being the giver of random cake.