MISS MOOX: clothing

There's no doubt that our culture is a consumer culture. With the wide variety of goods available, and greater amount of money to spend at leisure and on non-necessities, young singles like me with greater stretch in their spending power particularly tend to drop a lot of cash.

It surprises me how often my, and our, activities revolve around purchasing. Get bored: spend an hour or so at the mall, and end up buying some item of clothing you neither need nor really want. Go out with friends: drinks or a meal plus tip and you've just spent times what you would if you made it at home. A movie will cost you 6 bucks minimum, and that latte you crave, more than four dollars for twenty minutes' caffeinated pleasure. See an ad, and you're subtly but powerfully convinced, especially as you think about it, that you have a new "need" you never realized before.

Marketing, and our culture, focuses on creating a want and then compelling you to spend your money to satisfy that want. Whether it's a specified product or just a general attempt to fill some psychological need with the latest techy toy or newest shoes, we always seem to feel we need more.

Of course, I would say it's more than simply cultural: it's a product of human nature. "The lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life", as an older translation of the Bible puts it, is still alive.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, as a spending freeze forced on me by current joblessness and the expenses of Christmas has kept me from spending anything but the bare minimum. It's made me realize how much I carelessly drop a few dollars here, several dollars there: and how many of my daily activities revolve around money. I tend to spend as much as I have. That is to say, if I have money in the bank I don't see any problem with a mocha latte, or a gratuitous trip to Goodwill to find some funky vintage clothing; but the truth is that I have no savings account and many of my purchases are impulsive, ill-thought-out, and completely unecessary.

Much of the time I feel vaguely guilty when I spend, but can often rationally justify it. It wasn't really that much, I do deserve a few pleasures, I'm generous to others, and so on. But in reality, when the rubber meets the road and I'm jobless and penniless, were any of those purchases greater value than a fuller bank account now would be? Did they demonstrate foresight, or simply living for the moment?

I don't have any real answer; I'm rambling, simply because it's a problem I'm facing and I'm not sure of the answer. It can't be simply an ascetic avoidance of all purchases and a fanatical counting of every penny; but at the same time, I recognize a need for more discipline and restraint than I've hitherto exercised. What the answer will be, I'm not sure. I'm as much in need of grace with this as with anything.

Welcome to my Cottage Guest Room... Last April I posted just a few photos of this room. I have added several more. My April 24, 2012 has been my "most viewed" post with 2385 views.

There's nothing like a good nights sleep.
My desire is for my guests to sleep well and wake up refreshed.

I love all things vintage!
I found this old chair in an antique store in Lebanon, Tennessee.
It's the perfect place to squirrel away with a good blog.

To protect the little woven husk stool that belonged to my husband's grandparents
I slipcovered it in a minty green toile.
The images are from my favorite nursery rhyme...
"Hey Diddle Diddle...The Cat and the Fiddle".

"Precious Moments"
Each one has been a thoughtful gift from my family and friends.

"Star light, Star bright, First star I see tonight.
I wish I may
I wish I might
To have this wish I wish tonight."

"Sweet Dreams"

"Chloe's Quilt"
My sweet kitty, Chloe was only with me five years.
She suffered kidney failure.
I made this small quilt for her.
She loved to curl up and nap on it.
I miss her!

Collecting and displaying vintage children's clothing is something I love to do.

"For God so loved the world
that He gave His only begotten Son,
That whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish but have everlasting life"
John 3:16

I love soft, cuddly chenille.
That's the reason why I named my blog "Chenille Cottage".

I made this Teddy Bear
with my favorite 1930 Aunt Grace's reproduction fabrics.


Lilac
Lace curtains
A Lavender and white quilt
Rose colored lighting

I found this sweet doll cradle several years ago.
It needed a little TLC.
It soon became the perfect place for a few of my favorite things.
A chenille pillow Quilted teddy bear Several small quilted pillows and my 1950 baby picture.

"Birdhouses"
This miniature quilt is something I made several years ago.
I enjoy displaying it in the Spring.

Something soft for your toesies!

"Corner Cubby"
Each item on all the shelves was thrifted.
One of my favorite things to do is to spend time hunting for treasures in my local thrift shops.

The beautiful hobnail bedspreads were thrifted.
I paid $8 for each one.

I love kitties!

Sittin pretty!

My gentle little grey tabby cat, Schlomo.

"May Day Basket"
May your day be filled with joy!

Thank you for popping in and visiting,
my dear family and friends.

Dear Sirs and Madames,

Sometime in the last half-century (or more accurately probably, in the last decade), one of your number awoke from a lobotomy (or direct physical attack to the head, or alien abduction, or something equally drastic), and thought, "Low-waisted trousers! The next thing in fashion!"

And somehow, out of all the hare-brained and idiotic ideas which are perpetrated in fashion designers' heads and parade down runways thankfully never to be seen again in the world of humankind, this one survived. And made its way to every single tiny little clothing store on the planet, to become de rigeur for jeans and trousers of every cut. That is, if they are designed for anybody under fifty.

And now, thanks to this unknown genius, it is impossible to buy pants which have more than about two inches of waist. There is not only low, but ultra-low and super-low. And you have no choice but to succumb to this ridiculousness, if you want to buy trousers which are Not Dorky.

Standing up, they rest directly on what I believe are known as the pubic bones. Which is all very well and good. Until you attempt sitting down or bending over, upon which they slide down nicely to reveal about fifteen inches of skin, half of your underwear, and certain anatomical details I won't describe except to say they are commonly known by the same name as those lines that occur at regular intervals in the sidewalk.

Which may be fine for some people. I, however, subscribe to the old-fashioned theory that clothing is actually supposed to cover you. When I buy pants, I want them to be pants. Not leg covers. Anything less may be called Decorative Bits of Hanging for the Human Body, but not clothing. And I don't want to shell out my hard-earned money for it.

There must be other people in the world who find it ironic that trousers cover every single inch of your leg, but up top, where it really counts, they leave you hanging. Literally.

So: Messrs. and Mesdames Fashion Industry, a plea: please, please, by all the Fashion Power invested in you by goodness knows who, would you please come to your senses and determine that the next thing in fashion is going to be jeans with normal waistlines! That are actually cool! That are marketed to people younger than fifty! That cover you not only when you are standing upright but in every other possible contortion of the human body! I'm not talking about the above-the-belly-button styles that were popular up until the eighties, but it would be nice to come closer to that ideal.

Good sense, and irritated consumers everywhere, demand it of you.

Sincerely,
A Shopper

Had a rather unpleasant incident happen today which reminded me briefly of too many similar ones from my childhood.

Driving back home from small errands, the bank and the library, I suddenly noticed something startling at the side of the road: a cat, lying in a way no cat normally would, stretched out on its side in the gutter, just by the curb and behind a parked car. It was a very white cat, with few light gray markings, making it stand out brilliantly and rather garishly in the gray street.

I had only a second in which to see it, double take, and react. It was a second that resounded as an unpleasant shock. I swiftly pulled two cars in front, parked, and went back. If the cat had only just been hit, I could get it help, I could call an emergency vet, I could find and alert its owners to prevent a family's small, sad sorrow at the death of a beloved pet.

But as I approached it, hope quickly fled. The cat was completely motionless, not even the shadow of a breath, and its appearance led to the conclusion that it had been there some time. Determined to be sure, I prodded it gently with the tip of my foot. It was stiff like a board and its fur was sodden with last night's rain and streaked with the grime of the street. It was clearly male and lacked collar or other identifying marks.

Apart from the signs of death, the cat looked for all the world like any normal cat which had stretched out on its side for a long, lazy nap: eyes closed, one paw extended out in front, only the incongruity of its surroundings and its un-catlike filth and damp detracting from the picture. No blood, no broken bones, and no bloating marred its body.

What to do? I couldn't just leave it there. I have had too many animals die this way, on the road, not to pity someone else's loss. I looked around, decided on the house closest to it in my side of the street, went up the stairs and knocked on the door.

It was a long time before I heard footsteps coming and the door opened. It was a small, pleasant-looking girl about my age. "I saw you—is it about the cat?" she began. I nodded.

"We don't know who it belongs to," she said. "We've called police and animal control and they still haven't come to pick it up. There's a guy who lives here who's coming home later, and he said he'd help us with it. I don't know what to do with it, I guess we'll have to bury it or something." She shrugged.

Suddenly another door flung open and a very tousled-looking, sleepy-eyed girl with clothing in disarray looked out. "Is it about that cat?" she asked. "Is it still there? We've called the f***ing police and they still haven't come to take it away. It was there at midnight when we got home." I said nothing, but by her appearance I could guess that her night hadn't ended at midnight.

An equally tousled- and sleepy-looking guy soon appeared behind the girl to corroborate their story. The gist of it was that the cat had been lying there all night, they'd called police and animal control and flagged down a passing patrol car, and the police said yes, they knew about it and they'd remove it but they hadn't yet. Animal control was only open Monday and Friday. No, they didn't know who it belonged to, but Andre (which seemed to be the name of the tousled guy) had seen it around the neighbourhood. Yes, it was a shame and very sad.

There appeared to be nothing more I could do. We commiserated about it for some time and I offered help but the situation seemed to be as under control as it could be. They thanked me and I got back into my car and went home.

I guess I wanted nothing more than for the pitiful sight of the dead cat, somebody's pet, to be removed from the roadside. It was almost obscene, like a person had died there and been left for all the world to see, no dignity granted it in its final moments, nobody caring enough to remove it from the public eye. It is odd the difference between a domestic animal dying and a wild animal, like a squirrel or a deer. Both are sad, but I suppose the shocking element in a cat or dog's death is the fact that there have been so many cats and dogs that I have known, that have been part of my family or others' and dearly part of my heart. They have a way of working their small and infinitely unique personalities into your affections to almost the same degree as a human friend. I suppose it is the way God created it: cats and dogs seem uniquely designed as human companions and, I firmly believe, have high capacity for genuine love.

I hope this cat doesn't represent somebody's heartbreak. But I equally hope that he doesn't die unmourned. I hope they are able to find his owner, and I hope the owner is worthy enough to be sad at the loss of such a handsome cat. Cats have long been counted among some of my dearest friends. I was sorry to see one die this way.

The dress. I spot it on a Goodwill rack. Discarded by some other shopper, it immediately catches my eye. Obviously vintage, and handmade, its deep tealy-blue background covered in bright sprigs of tiny red-and-yellow flowers presents a visually pleasing palette. If only it fits...

I carry it into the dressing room where I slip it on. Miracle of miracles, it fits. Vintage clothing is often sizes smaller than our modern shapes, cut for larger and weightier bodies. I'm delighed by the details as my eyes rove over it. Sleeveless, split halfway up the shoulders, the armholes are finished with fine white piping. The same piping runs horizontally along the front of the shoulders, where it catches tiny gathers and finishes at the neckline. The high rounded neck plunges at the front to a V, all outlined in white piping which runs down to the gathered waistline, accented by pairs of tiny cream-coloured buttons. The skirt is full and round and fairly long, lined with a swishy shiny version of the same deep foam-green teal.

I love it. I'm sold. I slip it off (difficult, but it happens) and take it to the cashier. On the way I notice some small tears in one shoulder, and then a drooping bit where the hem has come undone. I ask the girl running the register if they qualify for a discount. She picks up the phone, calls her manager, and tells me that I get half-price. $2.99 for a wonderful vintage handmade dress.

I take it home after work, where I sew up the tears. It's a flimsy polyester-ish material which easily rips. I also discover that the hem, though finished by machine, has been tacked up with fragile white basting thread that is coming apart. Most of the hem needs re-sewing, which I do.

As I sew, I wonder. Who was the girl who made this dress? What was it for? It looks like it could have been made for some summer party, high hopes of romance and fun carrying along the maker's hands and dreams as she sewed. Why was it taken to Goodwill? Did its original owner keep it until she cleaned out her closet, convinced that she'd never be able to wear it again? Was it part of some woman's possessions, shoveled out as worthless by relations as she prepared to move to the nursing home, or worse, the morgue? Was it a prized last keepsake treasured by someone's mother, momento of a life cut short? Why was the hem never finished, though it's obvious the dress has been worn? Mysteries like this haunt me and play lively scenarios in my brain as I contemplate...

And that's, partly, why I love buying vintage clothes. The story behind each one. The little life dramas that might have been enacted while they were being worn. The mystery. The history. And the uniqueness, garments that you'll never find again. The funky styles that aren't being made today. The thrill of the find. Shopping at thrift stores is one of my earthiest life pleasures...