This is a poem that I wrote for a friend’s wedding recently, to sit next to the wishing tree that they had at their reception.
Stars above wheel and burn,
Turning their dome above Earth’s cradle.
Sparkles on every branch, beloved memories.
See the wishing tree that glimmers, points of wisp light
Blessings, born of tender heartstrings and gossamer dreams.
From roots of love and truth
Shoot blossoms of happiness.
Planting seeds of joy, fruits of friendship.
Dresses from Modcloth.com
Stolen from OpusElenae. Every November, she does something called NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month. It came about as a spin-off of National Novel Writing Month, which also takes place in November. The goal is to write a blog post a day, all month. I have decided to follow my wifey-friend’s suit and try to post every day in November.
So, for today, here is this probably-not-so-surprising declaration.
I love dresses. Absolutely love dresses.
I love feminine fashion and being girly. I am a huge fan of feminine fashion, loving the fit-and-flare, 50s and 60s style dresses, sweaters, skirts, and open-toed shoes that resurfaced this past spring and summer. I bellydance, love to clean and cook when I’m in the mood (and, yes, I have done so in heels and pearls before). I also wear jeans, shovel snow, deal with all the technology in our house, and shoot archery. Yes, I still consider myself feminine. I expect my 4-and-a-half-month-old daughter to one day run around in a tutu and rain galoshes, to put on camo and go hunting with her grandfather, and to love the pretty dresses that her grandmothers buy for her.
But, as for me, I would fill my closet with dresses if I could. Dresses that flatter, satin that feels like cool milk against my skin, lace that froths in the light, chiffon that flows and clings in all the right places and ripples like water when I walk. I love it all. It makes me feel beautiful and graceful and it’s one of the few things that I do for myself that makes me feel so. So no matter how old I get. You’ll never get me to give up my dresses.
These were the days I lived for as a girl. When blanket of grey covered the skies and rain fell in rhythm or cacophony upon my rooftop. Such is today. I am sitting on my couch by the window with half of the curtain open, watching the world through rain-spattered glass. Autumnal trees wave in the wind, which elicits a shudder from my shutters now and again. The one difference between here in Indiana where I live now and where I grew up in the Cayman Islands is the clouds. Growing up, I never noticed the clouds move. I knew they did but I never witnessed it. Right now, I am watching the lower layer of Gandalf-grey clouds cross my windowpane and it looks like watching a time-lapse video, they are moving so quickly. There’s a grace and a beauty to it, however, that unquantifiable.
Days like this are some of my favorites. Days made for blankets, tea, a journal, a good book, candles, lamps off, window curtains open, and utter quiet in the house. These are days made for peace. And we all know that peace plays very hard to get these days. In a world where we worry about our jobs, our finances, our spouses, our children, our health, our expectations, our dreams, as well as those of others, peace proves very elusive, doesn’t it? That is why I pray for days like these, days when peace becomes an almost tangible state-of-being. Days when, in the middle of all the busyness and madness of the rat race of life, nature itself manufactures a semblance of peace (ironically, amidst a weatherly tumult) to calm our nerves, soothe our aching, tired hearts, and give us just a moment or two of “ahhhhhh”. Even if it only lasts a little while.
A question that I have often asked myself is, “How did I come to know that? How did I learn it?” I am a veritable fount of all sorts of infromation and half of it I know how I learned it. For exmpale, how did I learn that apropos is pronounced “aprəˈpō” when no one I knew used the word in their everyday vernacular and I had only read the word before? Jeopardy is the biggest culprit of sparking this wondering in my head. I can answer questions with lightning speed. Information that is so far out of my purview and area of study, but that I can spout off with startling alacrity. Languages, medical terms, scientific process, historical events, psychological disorders, etc. I love the vast amount of knowledge that I possess and that there is ever more knowledge out there to learn.
Today, we ate somewhere new, the Damask Cafe in Muncie, IN. We had been waiting and waiting for Muncie to get a good Mediterranean restaurant and, though this opened a while ago, it was our first opportunity to go there for lunch. We are great fans of Mediterrenean cuisine, of the flavors of the Greek, Egyptian, and Turkish, so this was a welcome discovery.
Cafe Damask has taken over a familiar restaurant space on Bethel in Muncie; the former location of Bella Avante, and they have ever put a hookah hut in the take-out outbuilding. and, while the main internal structure of the restaurant hasn’t much changed, they have added little touches to give it the classy feeling they desired. My favorite touch are framed damask panels that hang on the wall. Damask is one of my favorite fabrics and I think that that particular touch is excellent, well-planned, and very elegant. A simple but striking decoration.
Ben had the, Turkish coffee and spinakopita and I had the summac chicken, as well as the hummus and pita bread. Everything was very good, the flavors very subtle and well-parsed-out. You could smell the subtle sweet in summac chicken, taste the gentle flavor of the basmati rice. We ate well and even got an extra order of pita to go with the leftover hummus so we could take it home with us along with the rest of the leftovers. Word of warning: the flavors strengthen after a while and just be aware that they will linger the second time around. 🙂
Cafe Damask has vegetarian options, platters to share, and is reasonably priced so it is a great place for a date night or to try somewhere new with friends. Give a try and see for yourself.
Summac Chicken, rice, and house salad
Photo from — http://www.indianadunes.com/travel-blog/2011/10/14/experience-the-changing-leaves-on-a-fall-drive-or-hike/
I ask myself this all the time: WHY would I want to live anywhere other than Indiana? And it’s usually when I am driving out in the country somewhere. Right now, Indiana is ablaze with autumn. It is my husband’s favorite time of year and is fast beocming one of mine. Today was a sunny, cloudless, cool day and, as I drove to and from church, I just marveled once again at the beauty of the land around me. Sure, east central Indiana is as flat as a failed souffle but there’s no denying the sight of a forest on fire with autumn colors cresting the horizon of a harvested corn field. It’s a beauty like no other. There’s a scent coursing along the crispness in the air, like a sharp, sweet, cold apple. Cliche maybe but appropriate nonetheless.
It’s not just a smell but also a feeling. A stirring inside. Life is changing in the fall and I am beginning to find it more beautiful than ever before.
Top left – Tohya Miho, GenCon 2006.
Top right – International Camarilla Convention (White Wolf) 2008.
Middle right – GLaRE (Great Lakes Regional Convention, Camarilla Club, 2010.
Bottom right – Steampunk, InConjunction 2010.
Bottom left – Harley Quinn, Inconjunction 2008.
Halloween is around the corner and I don’t really care all that much. I’ve never been big on Halloween. I was too shy to knock on even neighbors doors and say, “Trick or treat!” I do, however, love to dress up. We adults call it costume play or cosplay.
I guess I technically started cosplaying in 2004. My first official cosplay was for an end-of-the-year costume party in college. I went as Tohya Miho from Megatokyo. I had been working for a year on how to do the ribbons in my hair, though I didn’t perfect them until my first GenCon Indy in 2006. I enjoy cosplay; it’s a chance for me to be creative, to pull together a brand-new costume (because the only sewing I have EVER done for a costume is the lace for straps on that Miho costume). I love the creative process of cosplay and I love doing things on the cheap and still looking great. The most expensive piece in those pictures is the sari from ICC, but that was a 25th birthday gift from my mother. Cosplay lets me slip into another character’s skin and leave my own behind for a little while. It’s one of the few times that I don’t want to fade into the background and watch the world go by. It is honestly one of very few times that I like being front and center, and I’m even more pleased when people recognize and acknowledge a particular spin that I’ve given to a character in my costuming.
There have been so many arguments in the geek and mainstream communities lately on the authenticity of girls (and guys) who cosplay. Are they “true” geeks or are they just doing it for the attention? I hate this accusation and the resulting breakdown of just what makes someone a “true” geek. Hobbyists come in all shapes and styles and colors and fandoms. And each and every deserve respect as a person. If a woman doesn’t know the difference between the Frank Miller (Batman Year One) and Geoff Johns (Batman Earth One) origin stories for the Dark Knight doesn’t discount her as a comic book fan. She may just be in other comics. It doesn’t mean that she can’t cosplay as Batgirl or Poison Ivy or Catwoman. Just because a man has never read any of the burgeoning LGBT comics that are bursting onto the scene lately doesn’t make him sexist. No one has the authority to judge anyone else’s authenticity. We should welcome the fact that people want to have fun and be creative.
Women have been called out on wearing certain outfits, told that they are cosplaying just so they go around in skimpy or revealing costumes. Gee, I wonder where they got the ideas for those outfits? Oh yeah, from the comics, video games, and card games that depict their female characters in said skimpy outfits. Women who cosplay have been told that if they don’t want to get groped or their picture snapped for someone’s spank bank, that they shouldn’t go dressed as Wonder Woman or Miss Marvel. I have a wonderful friend who makes FABULOUS cosplay outfits and I have seen her get in the face of people who would snap her picture without permission. It’s just a courtesy thing; most cosplayers are happy to stop and pose for you, if you’re nice enough to ask. This hasn’t stopped me from cosplaying, and it is especially fun when I would see the same people from con to con. Having debuted my Harley Quinn at InConjunction, a small local fantasy and science fiction con, I was told by author Ben Avery, “You’re so creepy, but I can’t look away!” That was the best compliment I could have received on a first-time costume, especially my beloved Harley. At GenCon, with a revised version of the outfit, I likewise scared off a bunch of blood priests (from a game that I do not remember) crying down damnation on convention goers (these guys were all out, pretty awesome). In a fit of inspiration, I bounced up to the biggest one, stood on my tiptoes, and asked him, “Wanna know how my boyfriend gave me these scars?” while pointing to my painted-on Glasgow smile and grinning fit to split. He actually backed away, telling me no, it was OK; he didn’t need to know. It was hilarious! I told him that it was a really good story but he still wasn’t interested so I flounced off, much to my friends’ enjoyment.
Cosplay is, at the heart of it, something that I find intensely fun. I love dressing up. I love seeing other people dressed up. I love the creative process, even if the result only lasts a few hours. So while I may not like Halloween all that much, I don’t know if I will ever declare myself too old to play dress-up.
Warning: Vent incoming. Skip if you don’t want to read. This is intended for no one else’s edification/siphoning but my own. You’ve been warned.
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Every day it’s something. Every day that I think I’m doing so well, I’m on the ball, and then someone says something or I read something and I suddenly feel…less. Less of a good wife, less of a good mom, less of a good woman.
I’m not perfect. I don’t get my decor and organizational ideas from Pinterest, I don’t do flashcards with my ten month old, I let her play with my phone (watch ABCs, 123s, and shapes on Apptivity), I watch TV and my daughter enjoys the news and talk shows, I don’t shop at the Farmer’s Market, my baby girl doesn’t take afternoon naps (they mess with bedtime and then she’s miserable), I don’t make chicken soup from scratch, and the list goes on. I am not fashionable enough to be an Elizabeth Street mom. I am not progressive enough to be called a hipster mom. I like being at home with Elizabeth better than I liked teaching someone else’s children; some might call that laziness or lack of professional/global vision. I haven’t kept up on my piano and flute practice and so my fingers are extremely rusty; some might call it wasting my talents. I’m not as fit as I was before I was pregnant; according to the most recent viral trending photo, some might ask what’s my excuse (but that’s a whole other bag of worms; I’m actually rather glad for this lady in some ways).
There is so much that I am not that it sometimes feels like it overshadows what I am, and that’s hard. And it feels very painfully human, too. I hate feeling less. And no one does it to me but me. I know that. I don’t need anyone to tell me that. Doesn’t make it any easier to feel more. But tomorrow’s a new day and I’ll try to take a step forward again and find the joy once more. It’s really all I can do, yeah?
So I had a total Mom moment last night. I went to check on my baby girl after she had gone to bed and, when I held her little Snow White nightlight over her crib, I was so struck by how beautiful her little face was that I just had to stand there for a moment and marvel. I guess I never really imagined just how much you can love an infant; it’s really striking and beautiful.
I LOVE period television shows. Shows like “Downton Abbey” and “Call the Midwife” are my bread and butter. I have discovered a new show, however, a Canadian series called “Bomb Girls”, focusing on four women from very different backgrounds who work in the Victory Munitions factory making bombs. They put their lives into each other’s hands every day as they work in this highly explosive (heh) environment, dealing with not only each other, their own secrets, and the sharp lines of class distinction, but also with the worries of the overseas family members they are working so hard to help with their bombs.
I love all of the characters, such heartfelt, feeling women. Women who are deeply human, struggling to do jobs for which they are often considered ill-suited, being the breadwinners for their families, protecting their children, living up to their ideals, and doing their best to make a difference in a world gone mad. I watched the entire first season in one evening.
I love the style, I love the setting, I love the music. It’s just a great show all around. I can’t wait to start season 2. 🙂
MWGS: Mom, Writer, Geek, Superwoman 