Well, in case anyone’s interested, the piece of which I spoke yesterday–a quick and silly little pin-up for Anthrocon–can be viewed over here. I had originally planned to go with standard piratical red, but I liked the black-and-cream so much I stuck with it. I know, I know, you don’t wear white in a world of scurvy and flogging and keelhauling and tar and salt pork and all that. I don’t care. She lives in that strange world inhabited by pin-ups and high fantasy heroes, wherein no one ever needs to do laundry and you can wear stiletto heels and plate mail to the beach. (Come on, did Elric ever ONCE take time out of the smiting and swashbuckling to beat his clothes on a wet rock? I didn’t think so.)
It’s a funny world where nobody questions that a husky can stroll around on two legs with a sword and an attitude, but I get all bent out of shape by the uberclean pirate gear. Sigh. (“You have to keelhaul the first mate. It’s messy.” “No matter, I have my blessed jacket of protection from stains +4!”) On the other hand, when I stop and think that my JOB consists of wondering about stain resistant pirate clothes and frog boobs and how many body piercings a gun dealer oughta have, etc, I realize that yeah, I like my life.
Annnnyway, a weird little piece over at Deviantart that I did t’other day–one of my side projects is some concept art for James’s company, which is all very cute and wholesome and nice and I’m glad to be doing it, but if I do cute and wholesome vaugely anime kiddies for too long, I get a little…weird. I feel guilty though. More about doing vaguely angsty anime art than about those poor bunnies.
I Have A Slight Bunny Problem
And, finally, just to plug a bit–the original sketch of the husky buccaneer and her Amazing Stainproof Attire, plus a print, is up for auction over at Furbid. The original will come to Anthrocon with me, unless someone makes me the usual offer I can’t refuse. (Hey, don’t laugh, it’s been known to happen once or twice…)
Tonight, barbecue at my dad’s, much eating and drinking and swimming. I bought a bathing suit. It took me half an hour, not because I’m vain, but because you never know what size you are in what brand unless you actually try the damn thing on, and an ill-fitting bathing suit is a thing of horror. After a great deal of wiggling and contorting and grimacing, I found (as is predictable) that the most expensive one was also the only one that didn’t make me look like a pregnant elephant seal. My husband slouched over to the men’s section, said “I like green,” and pulled one off the rack, confident in the knowledge that it would fit him, and cost half what mine did. I swear to god, the subjugation of women isn’t being done with less pay or double standards about child care, it’s done by making us spend three times as long buying clothes, through no real fault of our own, as we play Size and Body Style Roulette. Every now and then I get this urge to scream “I’m an ARTIST! My time is VALUABLE! I could have started a fairly decent work of art that would amuse and entertain a couple of dozen people out there, maybe even some deathless piece for the ages (hey, it could happen) and instead I’m leaping around like a frog trying to climb into a condom! I don’t deserve this!” I know, it’s the height of arrogance, my time’s no more wonderful than anyone else’s, but damnit, I want to be able to just go pull something off the rack and know it’ll fit and not care.
James suggests “Buy a bikini top, buy men’s swim trunks, and you, too, can take five minutes to shop for clothes.” And in about six months, I have a feeling I may be doing just that.
