First off, I am not sorry at all if I planted Kool & The Gang in your head with the title of this post. Welcome to my nightmare (yup, Alice Cooper).

Next, let me admit that today I have even less to say than usual. I have been reading a lot, and writing some, and that is all good. My son and I are in Minnesota visiting relatives, and it’s been a lovely time, the lack of stress meaning I’m less neurotic than normal. So I don’t have any bees buzzing in my bonnet, or ants in pants, or fly in ointment, or any other kind of insect issue.

I am gearing up for National, and I told Amanda recently I hadn’t even thought about what to pack. If I was one of our heroines, I’d probably be one of those governess-y types, the quiet, secretly witty ladies who would have only a few gowns, one good one to wear to dinner that would be way less lovely than all the other ladies, but the hero would only see my sparkling hazel eyes and the way my crooked tooth glinted in the candlelight.

But I’m not. So I have many decisions to make. Namely, what to wear.

Some men claim that women dress for other women, and perhaps that is so, but I dress for ME (which explains those glitter shirts, red snakeskin boots, Hello Kitty t-shirt and stretch jeans with the hole in the knee I wear), as well as women. And men. And anyone else who might see me and think, for a second, I’m as glamourous as I would like to be.

I will probably do my standard travel outfit of black separates, a few colorful pieces, and gowns from my grandmother’s collection. I have been wearing her clothes for several Nationals now, and probably have to repeat, but I am hoping no-one but me (and maybe Amanda) notices.

My biggest concern is that I not look muttony, as in ‘mutton dressed as lamb.’ I’m not so old I should be wearing one of those dowager’s purple turbans, but I’m too old to be rocking some clothes I love. I know that. Really.

Boy, I sure am rambling.

My Saturday night outfit–for the RITA awards–will most likely be a pink floor-length dress from the ’60s made of stiff, almost upholstery-like, fabric; it’s got an Empire waist with a cute little bow in the middle, no sleeves, and the fabric has flowers printed into it, is that passimenterie? Like a couch, only vertical, and fitting around my body. Sounds horrid, doesn’t it? I promise it looks okay.

And if I were one of those governesses, I’d be so envious of the gowns my betters got to wear, when all I had was some drab hand-me-down in a color that didn’t suit me.

Clothes–to get back to the Regency part, which is ostensibly why I’m here, although no doubt you are wondering just why I am here today–are one of the biggest reasons I love the Regency so much. The fashion was classic and simple, and you could imagine wearing some of the clothing today, at least I could.
I even like the men’s clothes, especially because my husband would look hot in those skin-tight fawn-colored breeches, he’s got long, gorgeous legs although I bet he’d rival Beau Brummell in how long it took him to get his cravat right (my husband is a modern-day dandy).
So no real questions today, except what aspect of Regency life zings you, the way the clothing does me? The architecture, the clothing, the art, the freedom of political expression, the horse culture, what?
Thanks for your patience as I blather on again.