Skulls -R- Us

(And a very bad film that you probably enjoyed)

This is the newest version of the bib apron with the flower detail. I was so tired of making the flower pin so I came up with a new flower that is an "embellishment" that you can't remove without sharp tools. This flower will weather in the wash better than the pin which was really meant to be removed before washing, but c'mon, how many of you would have done that?

This fabric makes me happy. I actually have another piratey apron in mind that will be very expensive and no one will buy it but everyone will want it because it will be like Keira Knightley without her ubiquitous "sexy" pout. I thought I would do some couture aprons just for the fun of it (and also to explore my fashion roots).

Are you surprised to see another label shot? I didn't think so. My god! It's so amazing and official. So when someone asks you "Say Betty, where'd you get that natty apron?" and you wrinkle your brow in a deep puzzled think, you can examine the seams for evidence of the maker and VOILA! There it is in all it's turquoise glory "Goodness, I almost forgot! I got it from a darling little shop on 3rd street (or on the internet) called Dustpan Alley. See? Here's the label." Of course I realize that the conversation would actually go more like this: "Dude. I love the apron." "Thanks."

I would like to point out that I actually did have a color story here which didn't involve black or red. It was all about the blue and yellow. Sue had a Peace apron on. The yellow one, obviously. But then we sold it. I am in the middle of sewing 13 aprons and a couple of them are yellow, but not the ones that got finished yesterday. But doesn't BBQ Sue look sharp in her pirate apron?

They are having a picnic on their farm. Is it weird that I am jealous of my mannequins' imaginary farm?

Last night we watched the film "Shop Girl" which was based on a "novella" by Steve Martin. Before I tell you how much I loathed loved this film, I would like to take a moment to talk about novellas and how pretentious it is to write one. The reason why almost no one besides Steve Martin writes novellas anymore is that the world figured out something very important: if you don't have enough material for a whole book, then what you have is a short story. If there's too much for a short story then either write a novel or cut out the excess because no one wants to read a short story that is almost long enough to be a book but then drops you off a cliff of nothingness right at the moment you might have been able to commit to these characters for another hundred pages.

(But believe me, nothing would make me want to commit to the characters in this novella for a page longer than, well, for a single page.)

Novellas are stupid.

The story is about a vapid girl from Vermont who is supposedly an artist who has come to LA to...I'm still not sure why she came to Los Angeles. You know a film's going to be bad when it starts off with a very cheesy voice-over. Please don't get me wrong either, I happen to like Steve Martin. (At least, I did before I saw this movie which is exactly like a movie short being stretched to fit a feature length slot) Anyway, it's about this insipid girl who dates a total loser guy played by Jason Schwartzman because, well, why the hell not? But then she gets wooed by an older man played by Steve Martin.

A little side note: don't ever call a romantic comedy a "rom com" in my presence or I will pelt you with rotten tomatoes. I'm not kidding. Another little note: this movie is called a romantic comedy. Clearly someone was smoking a doobie in the press room (or wherever they decide how to promote films) because a film must meet two criteria to qualify as a romantic comedy; 1) it must be romantic and 2) it must be funny. This film cannot be described as either remotely romantic or funny.

I guess this film is supposed to be about Mirabelle and Jeremy (Claire Danes and Jason Schwartzman*) getting together, and both of them unfolding beautifully into a life together. But for about an hour and a half of the film all we see is Claire Danes having sex with the older man and him clearly not being serious about their "relationship" and her clearly thinking they are. What's funny about that? What makes it even more interminable is that both of these characters are distinctly lacking in any visible personality.

I really want to like Claire Danes but I have to admit that I still haven't gotten over the fact that she and Billy Cruddup hooked up together when Billy's girlfriend Mary Louise Parker was eight months pregnant with their child. I think it's really low to leave a woman when she's just about to give birth to your child. I guess it might have been alright in the end if Billy and Claire were soul mates or something. I guess. (I would still disapprove) But they have since broken up. Quelle surprise, non?

We would have turned this movie off right when the first voice over hinted loudly to us that this was supposed to be a poignant tale of tender love between an old man and a very young girl which you should show us, not tell us about, Steve. Unfortunately I have a pathological inability to turn a movie off no matter how bad it is or how many nightmares it will give me. I have to know how a movie will end or my mind will latch onto the not knowing like it's a third arm that I need to chew off of my own body. Yeah, no can do man. So we sat through the tedium.

In the end, what I walk away from this film with is the uncomfortable thought that this is Steve Martin's fantasy, or his reality. Either of which makes me seriously queasy. It isn't that I object to older men with young women (or older women with younger men for that matter). What makes me queasy is the nature of this particular scenario in which the older man uses the younger woman for sexual gratification and lets her believe there's more to it than an old man's sexual needs being met by nubile young innocents. Gross.

Another day I'll try to describe to you the kind of film I actually like, just for fun. You'll get dizzy with confusion just like my family and friends do. I can confidently say that you are probably best off not recommending any films to me. Ever. Only Philip actually understands what kind of film it is safe to bring home to me, and he's had fourteen years to figure it out.



*By the way, is there no end to the Coppola family and do they all need to be actor/directors? Oh yeah, and wine makers.