Little secret: like a cross-dressing husband, I love to play dress up in secret, swanning about my room wearing frou-frou skirts and scarves and singing along with old Disney movies. Usually after a shower I'll throw on some of my favourite ensembles, which means I'm usually topped off with a towel.
Well, last night I had a real reason to dress up: I got my story cleared, so starting after I come back from vacation I'll be put on the schedule as a story teller. As I jokingly told the director, I guess this means I have to stop speaking discriminatingly against actors. Since I am one now. Each tour gets three stories: the storytellers are stationed at three different houses, and the tours move from house to house. The tour guides are charged with checking tickets and keeping the atmosphere spooky. The house attendants are tasked with warning the storyteller and making sure two groups don't interrupt each other. And the storytellers have the job of scaring the pants off the guests. I'm sincerely worried that I'll be the one scared out of my pants (petticoat), since all the houses that I'll be performing in are actually haunted. I've heard stories--firsthand stories--about mysterious footsteps, shades coming down the stairs and a baby crying. Which would be cool, considering my story, but probably confusing to the audience as I'm booking it out the door in terror: "hey, aren't WE supposed to be scared?"
My costume consists of a shift, stays, pocket, stockings, shoes, brocade jacket, petticoat and cap. With a wool under-petticoat and a cloak for when it gets cold out. Can't have non-period coats over period clothes. I tried on my clothes last night and couldn't quite get the jacket hooked closed. I brought them to work to have the designer look at my outfit. According to her, my stays weren't cinched tight enough. I managed to bleat "but Linda, I need to breathe!" and she just laughed sadistically and pulled harder. I can't really move my arms, but who needs to gesture anyway? Like Norma Desmond, I can say anything I want to with my eyes. "Help me!" comes to mind...
I will try to post a picture soon, but my computer is well and truly dead. Kizmet ate my computer charger, and then he ate my friend's computer charger, so now we're both SOL. Until then, I'm borrowing internet from my roommates...
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1 comment:
funny how you mention cross dressing in the first line and the first thing I think of is that scene from Stage Beauty with Rupert Everett. It is amazing how we're so used to stereotyping cross dressing for a man as a bad and emasculating this but you never see a woman admitting in a personal column a shameful fetish of liking to dress up in men's clothing.
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