dragonlady7

For some reason having the house to myself tonight has been inordinately fun. I used to love it when my whole family would leave and I could be home alone all by myself and do whatever I wanted. Somehow a lot of the things I really like to do just don't bear up well under the casual scrutiny of, say, other people, like, in the same building. Most of the stuff I do, if someone asked "what are you doing" I really wouldn't have an answer-- which can really put a damper on one's underwear-clad round-the-house-and-mind-the-dresser romps while singing Protestant hymns (Shut up! I'm only a halfbreed Catholic anyway and the Proddies have better songs) or eighteenth-century drinking ditties (I blame my upbringing) and pretending to be a horse or a dragon or what-have you. Certain things can only be done when completely unsupervised. Certain things which it is essential to my creative impulses that I be allowed to do frequently.

The fact that I am home alone four days a week, given that my weekends do not match up with Z's, somehow has not lessened my glee at being alone tonight.

At the moment I am wearing long underwear and a woolly hat, because I don't see the need to turn up the heat when it's just me. I also just finished a (I think) stirring rendition of the one about the spice rack. this song is well sung, i make you a vow
and here is a knave that drinketh now:
nose, nose, nose, nose
and who gave thee that jolly red nose?
cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves
and that's where I got this jolly red nose!
Please note: lyrics are reconstructed from memory of a tape my dad used to listen to when I was small, a tape of an album I verified on Google is now out of print and is a rare expensive Collector's Item: Songs and Music of the Redcoats, which was chock-full of AWESOMENESS and four-part harmony, and which I would die of pleasure if some kind soul were to ever rip and put MP3s of up online. Come on, Internet... but no. So... accuracy may be compromised by sentiment.
But maybe sometime I'll do a Phone Post of a few of them. They're lovely songs but I haven't actually heard any of them in at least a decade.
Faugh, I'm not in very good voice tonight. No Phone Posts for you, Internet: I sound like crap and love you too much to do that to you.

So far I have tried on my Mardi Gras costume and discovered that I am a foxy bitch! The costume is nothing particularly inspired-- just my nice steel-boned SCA-farb corset, which is blue and gold, with a purple skirt and a green-and-gold sequined mask. I also have a floor-length black wool cloak my mother made me not long ago which I never ever wear. I am going to edge the hood of the cloak with a cheap green feather boa, which will be festive.
The point of this costume, besides being an excuse to wear my SCA-farb steel-boned corset, is to have my tits out enough that I don't actually feel the need to, well, get them out any further. I do not have the sort of tits one just whips out. They could kill people that way. So they must be carefully restrained.
I'll gladly show people my ass, though. Is that part of Mardi Gras? I really don't know.

As a side observation: I have here begun to butt up against an inherent problem that is bound to arise out of the juncture of my very monochromatic life and my somewhat madcap decision to make the heroine of the current novel Black. That problem being that I have never actually gone to bed with a black woman. I am having trouble envisioning what my POV hero is witnessing at the moment. But I simply cannot think of a way to discreetly enquire on Google. I think perhaps I shall simply stay out of the very graphic descriptions and focus more on the, er, universal truths of womanhood. But I do sort of wonder how well a bruise would show up on very dark skin.
Er, not that she's getting bruised while in bed, see, but, well, see, ok, I'm just going to stop explaining because it's just better I stop now.