So, my best friend is getting married. Whateva, whateva, whateva makes ya happy, girl*. She's set the date for late August (outdoors, in central California. HAHAHAHA! So droll) and things are kicking in to high gear. She is making her gown. She has designed a skirt adorned with graduating tiers of pleated organza. Now, this would normally not be a problem. We work together. She's a pro. She's made ball gowns of gold tissue lamé. She's beaded. She's boned. Girlfriend knows what she's doing. But.
But, six months ago, at the very height of theater season, she had a stroke. A damn-near fatal one, at that. She has spent the past six months in the hospital/rehab facility/working like a dog to try and get her body functional and her life back together. She's winning, and I am so proud of her. But let's be honest. This dress needs 36 yards of pleated organza. 36 yards AFTER pleating. That's... that's a hella** lot of fine motor control. So I offered to do the pleating.
At first I thought, ha ha ha... oh no problem, I will buy a pleater foot for my industrial sewing machine and somehow magical sewing angels will arrive on the crest of a rainbow and deliver unto me 36 yards of pleated organza whilst the choir sings and butterflies flutter about my studio. But, alas, it was not meant to be. In other words: AW HELL NAW that ain't workin' out for me. This son of a bitch is going to need a pleating board, several pots of tea, and the patience of a frikkin' saint.
This is all just a very long-winded way of saying that I have a pleater foot, now, which might be kind of handy for making tutus in the future, perhaps. I really need to learn to get to the point...
*and thus ends my one and only attempt at writing a Beyoncé song.
**slang courtesy of 1995. You're welcome.