I had a somewhat anachronistic weekend. Saturday I went to Sac ComicCon. I'd never been to a con before, though I had always kind of wanted to. This one was small, nearby, and inexpensive, so on more-or-less a whim, we bought tickets and gave it a whirl. They had the sorts of things that you would expect to see, presuming anybody ever truly expects to see two guys battling it out in full plate armor made from flattened mountain dew cans and duct tape.
What I liked best about the experience was one large corner of the exposition hall that was populated with people selling whatever thing they made: self-published comics, books, art, whathaveyou, with people who were really excited to tell you about it. It's pretty rad that we live in a day and age that if you want to make something and get it out there, you are not particularly beholden to the attentions of any professional publicist to make that happen. It was bad-ass to see a lot of people putting their creativity on a page and a lot of people picking it up and checking it out. Huzzah.
My husband turned up at one point reverently holding up a new ship addition to our Star Trek Attack Wing game.
"What did you get?" I asked, picking it up.
My breath caught. "That's my ship."
"I know."
Sunday I framed and hung my new robot art on the wall, while my husband researched antique desks on which to put our new iMac. Then we dug through the paper remains of 2015 to get our taxes together.
Monday, I went back further in time. My kid had a field trip to Sutter's Fort, and I signed up to help out. In this case, that meant dressing in 1840s garb with 20-30 other parents and teaching the kids a historic trade. I got the weaving and spinning station. Weaving was entirely new to me, but after a four-hour training session at the fort a few weeks ago, I knew enough to teach the kids the basics, considering we didn't have to warp the loom ourselves.
I was introducing myself as a weaver in John Sutter's blanket making factory at one point when a young lady in a bonnet looked at me.
"No, you're not. You're a geographer."
Ah, geography club member.
The boy next to her raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"
The girl in the bonnet gave him a smug look. "That means maps, not rocks," she said.
Historically accurate or not, she and I shared a high-five.
We were forbidden by a rather stern-looking docent at the fort from touching our "magic boxes" for a full seven hours. It's been a long time since I've been simultaneously conscious and cut off from the digital world for such a stint. All the parents were having trouble with the deprivation, especially from knowing the time, and more so with the temporal disorientation that comes with being on Day 2 of the daylight savings time change.
I was worn out by the end of day, and even though my body should have thought it was only 8:00, I crawled into bed once the clock said 9. My husband walked into the room about the time I was drifting off.
"You're in bed already?"
"Yes, I'm exhausted."
"What from? Are you feeling sick?"
"No, from wearing a corset all day."
"Fair enough."
