To My Fellow Con-goers...

Now that another con season is dead, and preparations for the next begin anew (working on a chevron headscarf... my man wants to go to Dragon*Con as Ezio, and I'm making an assassin gypsy!), I wanted to write something that I have really been mulling over for some time.

There's a lot of back and forth among cosplayers and the people that love them/hate them/rant about them on the internets these days. "They're portraying characters and therefore objectification is okay!"  "I'm a person, goddamnit, and it doesn't matter what I wear!  A costume isn't a badge that says it's okay to talk solely to my boobs/abs/junk!" "I LIKE TALKING TO BOOBS OKAY I CHOOSE MY CHOICE" "WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO MY BOOBS???" "Maybe nobody should cosplay ever, because we can't agree on how to deal, so obviously we Can't Have Nice Things."

I propose a middle path for all of us. A way that those of us who are in love with fandoms and express it with a desire for interfacing, moldmaking, and hunting down the precise shade of Assassin White can still exhibit their passion on their bodies in a safe environment, and where cosplay-viewers can still appreciate a rockin' bod underneath all that chainmaille.

(To get the haterz out of the way, I shall show you my Geek-Fu. I know zilch about computers/HTML/programming, but I have an appreciation for math, physics, and chemistry.  I'm currently playing a 5th-level elven cleric in a 13th Age game [created by Rob Heinsoo, who worked on D&D], and a Blood Talon Elodoth in a Werewolf campaign. I'm down like a clown with comics [LOVE the work done on The Uniques, but I also hang with mainstream titles], I speak Japanese, have lived in Japan because anime [loved it anyway], and I almost flunked out of college due to an EverQuest addiction. Yes, I'm a geek, yes, I'm old, move on)

FOR THE COSPLAYERS:

First of all, to a varying extent, you want attention for your creations.  Admit it, own it.  Attention, and the desire for it, are not a bad thing in and of themselves.  It's awesome having people stop you for your picture at cons, it's awesome having people compliment your work, especially when you went to fifty fabric stores for the aforementioned precise Assassin White. It's a rush.  You're at a con, and you will be getting some looks and comments simply based upon the costume.

Sometimes, it's not so nice.  You might hear people saying things behind your back about poor quality construction, styling choices, the character you chose, even how fat/ugly/awkward/skinny YOU look. It can hurt.  But, sadly, that's the way the cookie crumbles.  There's some sucking-up of one's own ego that has to happen because you're putting yourself and your work out there. Also, some people may not give you the level of attention you desire because of reasons. That's something that comes with the territory as well, sad to say.

FOR THE VIEWERS:

Stalking, harrassing, groping without invitation, sexually assaulting, or otherwise harming a cosplayer is just as bad as in real life. Which is really bad, and you should be ashamed of yourself if that's how you spend your evenings.  But barring that, please remember that above all, there are people inside the costumes. Treat them politely.  A good rule of thumb is that if you wouldn't want your mom/boss/romantic partner/a police officer seeing how you're behaving, it's probably a bad idea to behave that way to begin with.

That's not to say you can't enjoy a rockin' bod in a costume.  That's not even to say that you can't take a pic at a con and adjourn to the bathroom to masturbate to it, if that's what you're into. Ask for pics, don't just take them randomly. And if you have to compliment, please keep it to the costume itself.  "Great fabric!" is very endearing.  "YOUR ASS. I'D LIKE TO PUT THINGS THERE" is creepy.

Finally, please remember that the entire con floor is not a LARP. It's generally assumed to be OOC vs. IC.  True story:  I was wearing a Young Justice Miss Martian costume that my mom helped me with (my mom is awesome!), and wandering around a merch area, contemplating on buying a steampunk watch part bracelet for Day 2.  Someone came up to me and yelled at me for breaking up with Superboy, told me that Superboy really loves me, and I'd never do better than Superboy.  I was pretty off-guard at that moment, so I'm pretty sure I just said, "Dude, I'm an assistant manager at the Target in Chicago." Because I wasn't LARPing as Miss Martian.

TO EVERYONE:

Just... try to be excellent to one another.  Bill and Ted might not have been especially bright, but they hit the nail on the head with that one.  Thank you.

Dear People with Children,

Hey.  I'm one of those unnatural childless women who have no maternal instincts. And I hate your kids.

I don't want to kill them or anything, or even see them come to any harm. However, I do not want to interact with them, and I really wish they would leave me and mine the hell alone.

No more do I want to see little faces peering into my windows hoping to catch a glimpse of my cats or tapping on them to get their attention.  My cats aren't child-friendly, and no, little Aidan, Braden, and Makayla can't come in to play. My home is just as child-unfriendly as the cats are, and I don't want the little bastards inside. I like things like swear words, fire, knives, and porn.  My home is not an extension of their playground.

I ache inside when they're running around at restaurants or during adult-only events.  Just this evening, I was at an adult dance class, which I pay for and dearly enjoy.  I do not enjoy my dance teacher having to tell a posse of random children that they had to either sit quietly or go back in the room. Nor did I enjoy having to strain to hear her over the din of exclamations at how cuuuuuuute the snots were. I pay for these classes.  I pay for nice meals when I can afford them with my partner (not all the time, knives are expensive). And one misplaced tot can really put a damper on my enjoyment of what I purchased.

Maybe I'm being too harsh.  Maybe it's not the kids that I should rail against... it's the parents.  Yep, you, stay at home Mommie Dearest, and you, Checked Out Workin' Dad. You, who act like every shit the kid takes is a miracle delivered from the heavens. You, who insist that the kid is the next Stephen Hawking even though Taylor can't even fucking read.  SHE'S NINE.  You, who dress them up in designer clothes or prostitot gear, and reward their attention seeking crap with lavish praise and toys. And then you whine how parenting is sooooooooo haaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrd and it's the hardest, most demanding job in the world, and you should get PAID for it, damn it!  Well, bitch, in order to get paid, you have to produce something of value, and I'm relatively sure little Dakota isn't the Messiah.

You turn your noses up at me, even though I'm the one that covers your slack at work (assembly?  Li'l Spinners Pole Dancing Classes? Parole hearing? I've heard it all), I'm the one that gets held up in line when I just want to get some beer or tampons, I'm the one that subsidizes schools I won't be using so you can have somewhere to put Jacen during the day. But, you either think that I'm some dumb little thing that just doesn't get it and doesn't know her own mind (even though I'm well over thirty, graduated college with honors, and spent exactly three months unemployed during the recession) and will eventually succumb to the Baby Rabies that infects every woman ever, or I'm the spawn of Satan, an avatar of selfishness and psychopathy without any capacity for love or joy (um... no).  I love deeply, give freely of my heart and time (and porn!), care tenderly for the people I love, and am supremely happy with my choices. My relationship is awesome, my cats are the best, I work hard and I have buckets of friends and experiences and memories and dreams. The only problem you have with me is that I chose differently from you. My choices don't impact you in any way. Choosing not to multiply does not diminish anything of your life.

But your choices impact me.  You added a disgusting little human to the world, and they invade my space without any intervention from you. They violate the sanctity of my private space, upset the beings with whose care I have been charged, add complications to my plans. They knock over the balance of things, and turn fairness into a joke.  Because of the kids, you piss and moan every time I have an advantage over you (able to work longer hours and thus get promoted faster, able to find adequate, affordable housing, able to do things with far fewer logistics required), but you greedily latch on to any advantage you have over me (government assistance, tax breaks, flex time... The list goes on). Sorry you're jealous... I'm kind of jealous too. But you don't see me running down to the sperm bank so that as soon as I'm pregnant, I can have free government avocados.

I really just wish you and yours would leave me and mine alone. We have a wonderful life, and if there was a way to wholly avoid children or parents, I'd take it. But, I have to deal with you... and you have to deal with me.

I'm NOT babysitting.