Being a little black dress is like being in a sorority. You’re not identical, but you are mostly the same. You and your sisters tend to think alike, want the same kinds of things. A party where there’s not a lot of sloppy food. Clear alcohol. Shiny jewelry and fancy shoes, with a bag to match. It’s hard to imagine being another color. If you were purple, or bright yellow, or grass green, you’d hardly ever meet anyone like yourself. It would be lonely, I think. I like being a little black dress, and seeing my sisters wherever I go.

I just packed for a week's trip and I am wearing this skirt nearly every day. Seriously. I packed one other skirt and ONE dress.

I don't know what it is — I think it's that I've been sewing my way through my fabric stash, using up all the pieces that were supposed to have been skirts, 2001-2005. It could be that I've got too many dress patterns to sew, so that I can't decide which one is next. It's probably, though, a combination of very little time and the fact that I can make this skirt in less than two hours. (+ one TV show's worth of hemming, which doesn't really count as "sewing" to me. If you can watch TV while doing something it's not actually work.)

It also probably has something to do with my obsession with cardigans, and the fact that it is very difficult to wear a cardigan over a Duro dress (although I'm looking for a good batwing cardigan to make the attempt).

Needless to say, I don't make the gored, pointy version. (Although no judgment is implied if that is the one that sings to you.) I have made it, so far, in:

• camouflage
• black and camel striped wool
• polka-dot Liberty (only brighter than that colorway)
• gray wide-wale corduroy
• vintage black-and-fuchsia sateen
• turquoise blue wool flannel (you can see exactly three inches of this one here)
• various home dec fabrics, including several from Ikea.

To make this, I cut the yoke waistband at least one size smaller than indicated (I don't like it as low-rise as they thought I would). I do a lapped zipper and I add a side pocket. I usually hem it with bias tape or hem lace, and hand-stitch the yoke facing down. If the fabric is heavy, I use a light cotton print for the yoke & pocket, to keep it from being too bulky (which is also nice aesthetically).

In fact, I've used this pattern so much I'm planning on buying another copy at the next 99 Simplicity sale and transferring it to nonwoven interfacing, to make it last longer. I'm also going to trace it off in various lengths. Someday. When I have more than two hours plus one episode of something to sew in.

Lots of dresses don’t remember being made, but I do. I don’t know if it’s because it took her so long, or if it was because she was thinking so hard about me, but I remember everything. I remember the first shock of the scissors and the needle melding the thread into me and the heavy wet heat of the iron—everything. I remember how vague I felt when my seams were all still unfinished, before I was hemmed, or had buttons. But I wish I could remember the first minute when I knew I was going to be a dress.

Anna at BootyVintage reminded me I wanted to link to her Etsy shop, which sells only larger-sized vintage patterns. Great idea, what? (Talk about the Long Tail … )

Anyway, I must be watching WAY too much Battlestar Galactica (yes, I know I'm late to the party — I'm in season 2.0 right now — but hey, there was plenty of onion dip left when I got here), because the first thing I thought of when I saw this lovely 1970s Sybil Connelly dress was "CYLON!!!"

You see it too, right? She could be walking the streets of poor nuked deserted Caprica, having only to crook a finger to call down those clanking centurions to provide firepower. It must be the stark white of the dress against the urban scene, coupled with her ectomorphic and etiolated frame that does it … If only she weren't holding that bag. Cylons never have to reapply their lipstick.

I knew when she tried me on that she was never going to wear me. C’mon, a Kansas schoolteacher on vacation in Hawaii? She wasn’t buying a dress; she was buying a memory, a fantasy. She was buying the idea that this wasn’t going to be her only trip to Hawaii, that she would throw a tiki-themed party back home in Lawrence, that the handsome man at the bar would send her a drink, served in a pineapple. She was buying the idea of wearing a hibiscus flower in her hair. Me? I’ve never even been out of my box.

The special Kansas is shout-out for Lydia and Janet!

So, because I need to document my streak as the world's luckiest woman, this is what happened to me Saturday morning.

First off, I had a last-minute errand that could not be done over the Internet (I know, hard to conceive of!) and said errand could be accomplished (in a rare turn of events for a Saturday) without the charming yet exhausting company of a six-year-old boy, AND was out by one of the best antique stores in Chicago (which The Sewist introduced me to), of course I stopped there, and I bought some Christmas presents (as well as some vintage patterns of which more anon).

While I was in the store a kindly middle-aged man walked in and asked the proprietors if they wanted an old Singer sewing machine. He wasn't looking to sell it, he added; he just didn't need it any more and wanted to give it a good home.

Now, the owners were really busy (the store was full of mothers and daughters intent on touching every one of the thousands of pieces of costume jewelry) and they were not interested. So the man asked the store at large: "Anyone want an old sewing machine?"

No one else looked up, or even seemed to be paying attention. So I raised my hand, and said "Well, I'd be happy to take a look at it."

Out we go to the parking lot, where his black Mini Cooper was parked right next to my green Honda. He pops his trunk and there it is — a lovely little antique Singer, in a beat-up wooden case.

"This is valuable," I told him. "You should sell it. You should let me pay you!"

"Nah, I just want it out of my house." He wouldn't even let me do the putting of it in my trunk. He shook my hand, and told me "Merry Christmas!" (And I swear I heard sleigh bells when he drove off.)

So that's the story of how a stranger in Park Ridge gave me a Singer sewing machine. It looks to be in good shape, probably electrified early on (there's a foot pedal, and a light). I'll probably get it tuned up in the new year.

So there you have it, the story of the Christmas sewing machine. Guess I've been a good girl this year!

I much prefer buttons. I know I didn’t really have a choice, but I like buttons, and I’m glad I’m a button dress. Zippers are fun and sexy and make that great noise, but they’re risky. I’ve never yet seen a dress with a broken zipper get fixed. You lose a button, it’s pretty easy to find another one. Ten minutes later you’re out the door. You can even use a safety pin. But a zipper … the zipper breaks, and you might as well resign yourself to being crumpled and forgotten in the bottom of the mending basket forever.

(Another in our occasional series of gift-giving advice.)

Sure, bath and shower stuff is now a traditional gift at the holidays, but this stuff, Kneipp shower gel, is different. Well, the Juniper variety is different. Why? Because it smells exactly (and I mean *exactly*) like Wint-o-green Life Savers.

I don't know about you, but for me, that's a good thing. It smells delicious, but not heavy or cloying (as so many flower-and-fruit-scented gels do), it's invigorating, and it STAYS IN THE SHOWER. I may like to wake up to a particular scent, but I don't want it following me all day. (I have this stuff for that.)

They've just changed the packaging (it used to be a fairly odd-looking square-topped white plastic bottle that held onto the last ounce with a tenacity rarely seen in bath products). There are also herbal baths (less sudsy) and fizzy bath tablets available, too.

This makes a great stocking stuffer!

Yesterday she fell asleep with me on. That’s never happened before. She was sitting on the couch matching socks and then suddenly her head was on the cushion and her feet were up, and she was asleep. At first I was worried she had died; I don’t think I’d ever been on someone lying down before. But then she started making this funny rasping noise, and I could feel her chest moving up and down, so I realized she was sleeping. It was nice, actually. I thought I could almost feel her dreaming, but then the doorbell rang. Stupid mailman.

My favorite place is the grocery store. I don’t really like food all that much – when you are always worried about spills and never taste anything, why would you? – but I like the grocery store. I like the colors, and watching them repeat like a pattern, seeing the glossy red of the apples show up again on the bread and the laundry detergent and the cookies and the lipstick she throws in the cart. I like the music, and how sometimes she dances a little, there in the aisle. I like seeing the other dresses. It’s a good place.