(Short aside: there's this book series called the Wheel of Time, and I might like it a bit... Okay, enough to fly to Altanta every April to party with awesome and like-minded geeks at an itty bitty shindig called JordanCon...)
Anyhow. Costuming season. What does that mean?
It means I occasionally upload weird pics to Facebook.
|Kinda like this. (That's a corset pattern, btw.)|
It means I have my sewing machine and assorted gear sitting in a corner of the kitchen.
It means I regularly commandeer the table in said kitchen for cutting, sewing, painting, gluing, and what have you, so that Mr Lannis must relocate to the living room couch for his meal eating and coffee drinking (as a shift worker he runs on a separate schedule to the rest of the house during the week. I feel
It means I have a half naked dress form standing in my living room next to the window. Her name is Lady Penelope, and I'm hoping she scares the neighbours (heh).
It means I'm giddy with the thought of how many days it is before JordanCon (only 50 and counting!), and how little time that actually translates for costuming! (GAH! What'm I doing blogging?! Must SEW!)
It also means the housework is secondary. Oh, who'm I kidding? It's like seventh tier on the chart right now—waaay behind costuming, food, groceries, laundry, and, um, husband and kids are in there somewhere... this list may or may not be representational of actual priority, unless we count costuming as first and housework as near the bottom...
Who needs perpetual chores, anyway?
The one thing that it also means? Since JordanCon is in April, and I live in Canada (read: the dry, cold, snowy country with soul-crushing blank skies similar to the Blight, heh), it means it's also cracked hand season.
Yep. Cracked hand season. The tips of fingers split. Skin thickens, burns with dryness. Knuckles bleed.
I shit you not, on any day I'll discover out of nowhere that I'm bleeding all over things, without even noticing.
Coffee cups. A hairbrush. The van's steering wheel.
Imagine, if you will, folding laundry, to find a streak of fresh blood smeared across your child's shirt. GAH! Your finger's bleeding! Again! Not one, but two! And for how long? Who knows?!
Back into the wash for a cold water soak.
I'm sure you gather where I'm going with this?
Costuming season in the Lannis household means my fingers look like they've been attacked by a rabid pack of zombie bandaids desperate for human flesh...
It's virtually impossible to have any tactile sense. And this is before you count the needle-pricking and fingertip bruising that sometimes comes with detailed costuming work.
If I manage to show up at JordanCon with a costume, it's a goddamn Bel Tine miracle...