I had an up and down weekend, filled with goods and bads. One bad came early on; I had ordered a beautiful 100% wool tweed suiting from Fabric.com, with the intention of making a rather nice Victorian hunting outfit. what came was 8 yards of completely unuseable green knit, not suiting, not tweed, and most certainly not 100% wool. This is completely unacceptable, and will be rectified.
A happy thing is that I've started work on embroidered nightcap designs for Reconstructing History, and it is going remarkably well; the artistic muse has been with me, and I'm delighting in the feel. A bad thing is that the muse does not allow for physical limitations, and my hands hurt quite a bit from mad drawings. Still, the good outweighs the bad, and I hope to have some working designs soon.
I attended Lochmere's 20th Baronial Birthday event Saturday, and while the rain was quite drenching, I managed to have a fine time seeing people I had not seen in many years. I managed to get a photo of a photo of my first Elizabethan (the one I thought no photos had captured), and I will be loading it up (with the full description neccessary to understand the horror) (the horror) on my page of shame soon.
Minor stuff, I know; most unexciting to anyone but me. As is this:
How evil are you?
I know I always make jokes about how evil I am, but honestly, I'm not terribly evil at all. Puppies and kittens are safe in my hands, and I never hit someone who doesn't totally deserve it in one way or another.
I fail at evil, despite what the meme says. It's so sad.
I am scary, though, and I've come to terms with that. I'm too English stiff-upper-lipped to be anything other than scary to a nation of people who hug perfect strangers and tell random people (usually me) their life story at the drop of a hat (gross generalization alert; I know you're not like that. Unless you are). I play my cards close to my chest.
The irony is that for an Englishwoman, I'm insanely outgoing. I smile at perfect strangers, and ask people how their day is going. I'm effusive (comparatively). I'm loud. I make jokes that aren't entirely composed of sarcasm (sometimes). I'm friendly.
I know, I know.
And I'm being unfair to the English - they're very friendly, nice, generous, and ready to assume the best of everyone they meet - they're just a lot more reserved than Americans. I run into real problems with this in the SCA - because I wait until I know you a little before I open up (this has been exacerbated by betrayals in my past when I have been more forthcoming sooner), I get accused of "hating" people. I don't hate anyone - I'm just not going to lay down with my throat exposed before just anyone. I don't share everything on the first meeting, or even the tenth. I have to trust you before I'll let you in, and to some people, that means I'm an evil bitch who judges everyone and finds them wanting.
Trouble is, if I open up to the wrong person, all that honesty gets used against me. Forgive me for keeping some of myself reserved for special friends, and let me tell you about superficial stuff, like the embroidery work I'm doing. Eventually, if we know each other in real life, I might open up more. I know I'm more work to get to know, but if you like me, keep trying; it will happen.
...and always work from the assumption that my baseline is acceptance. You actually have to screw me over before I'm going to have a negative opinion of you. That expression on my face? Is just wariness, not scorn.
Or it could be pain. Or deafness (I have trouble hearing in crowded rooms). Or distraction. Or a really great idea. Or concentration on something else. Or I didn't see/hear you, so you'll need to tap me on the shoulder instead of waving at me across a mass of people. Or panic - I get panic attacks in crowds. Or indigestion.
Whatever that expression is, unless you're trying your best to fuck with me and my loved ones, it's not hate. It's just my usual look for everything. And if you catch my attention, I'll smile.
If you assume I hate you, you'll be wrong 999 times out of a thousand. I have much better things to do than hating a perfect stranger.