Costumes are great conversation starters. “Oo, that’s so clever!” “Love the fabric; where’d you get it?” “Okay, I give up. What the expletive deleted are you supposed to be?” When you venture into the world of reenacting, those friendly conversations can take a sudden and ugly shift from helpful hints about keeping your pinner apron in place to screaming debates about how long to soak metal buttons in urine in order to achieve an authentic patina. No, I’m not kidding . I fall on the less-hardcore end of the historical garb spectrum, mostly due to a lack of funding and closet space. While I’d certainly consider donating an extraneous organ or two for something like this: most of the stuff in my costume closet comes straight from vintage Vogue and McCall patterns. No biggie, since my appearance isn’t that important. I spend most of my reenactment time chatting to kids who are fascinated by my spinning wheel, while their parents are giggling and taking vi...

On the outside, I'm staring blankly at the screen, my fingers frozen on the keys as my once-steaming cup of coffee congeals. On the inside, I'm hurling enough blistering invective at the neighborhood dogs to turn any listeners within a three-block radius into pillars of salt. The barking is driving me nuts. Come on, focus. Wonder Woman; I'm supposed to be writing something about how Wonder Woman relates to my writing. Psht. Yeah. I wonder  how I ever get anything done; how about that? Hey, that could work. How does Wonder (insert gender here) manage to do All The Things without collapsing in a sobbing heap at the bottom of a carton of Dark Chocolate Caramel Espresso* ice cream? Ah, I see that you are now on the edge of your seat, hoping that I will reveal either The Secret or the location of said ice cream. Truth be told, they are one and the same. In two words: self care. Back when my husband was diagnosed with the second of six cancers (I tell you, he'...