Excuses, Excuses…

I missed a week of blogging.  I would have missed much more than that if I hadn’t written a ton of posts during my vacation and banked them.  *phew*  What had me so pulled away from my computer?  Outside of keeping an immaculate house (ha!  If only… More on that crisis of self later), I am also a seamstress.  I used to sew stuff to sell (and still do, but that is such a very minor part of my life now), but now I sew stuff for the pure sake of acting like a fool.

But at least my pants aren’t on the ground.

First up, Italian Cortesans

I was supposed to be wearing a mask, but it was too hard to see.  I wore the mask in order to be revealed to the King of MN Renaissance Festival (a wedding gift of 19ish Courtesans) as the “surprise at the bottom of the box.”

Then came International Talk Like a Pirate day

International Talk Like a Pirate Day coincided with Shamrocks and Shenanigans weekend at Fest.  To celebrate, I was a great Irish pirate Sinead O’Parrot.

Then you have your Day Of Wrong

To the uninitiated, which, admittedly, is just about everyone, Day of Wrong is the day to take your average Ren Fest look and turn it on its head.  My take was Abby Sciuto.  Or as one fest goer said, “It’s that chick from NCIS in Renaissance clothes!”  Yes, that is a Caf-Pow cup tucked into my pocket.

Lastly, meet Ophelia Jib.

There are, perhaps, better photos of this costume, but this picture speaks volumes.  It was 100% staged, as were all the photos of Ophelia, and supposed to look like I was passed out drunk.  However, after a month of festing–albeit part time, and only as a Playtron–that’s exactly how I felt.  If you were to fast forward this photo by about three hours you’d find me in nearly the exact same position on my couch.  Throat on fire, head throbbing, dead tired and certain beyond any doubt that I would have a wicked cold the next morning.  Despite that, playing Ophelia was a blast and a half.  Here’s the low down on the costume:

Once upon a time, my darling friend Erin was suckered into a little street performance by a pirate at fest named Obadiah Jib.  He married her on the spot, as he does many women around the world, until he is caught and hanged at the neck or their uteruses (uterusii?) fall out. The next year he was shocked to realize they remembered him, and my band of friends befriended him.  The NEXT year they had sucked me into becoming a costumer and introduced me to him.  I fell in love with his pants.  That’s what I do.  I fall in love with fabrics.  Deal with it.

Jump ahead a few months to when I manage to obtain a leather tricorn hat.  Suddenly it dawned on me to base my pirate costume off Obadiah’s and call her Ophelia Jib.  Erin would be my mother, Jib my father.  Only Jib would not know this.  At the next fest season, Jib would find out there was a daughter from his fateful marriage with Erin (who decided her character name would be Lilith).  It wouldn’t be until the very last day of Fest that Obadiah would find out who his spawn was.  If you want to see all the Ophelia shenanigans, check out her Facebook page.  Yes, we went so far as to make her a Facebook page.  Until the last day of fest, my face never showed up.

The Ophelia Jib Project was an amazing success, and it was a great load of fun that all my friends joined in on.  We’re planning bigger and ever better things for next year, so MNRF?  Watch out.  Cuz the Wench Posse goes to 11.


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