Up on the housetop. (Dickens style) *Edited (Y’all won. I posted a solo clip.)

*Edited. Video of me barking out a tune is at the bottom. (For being sick it’s not too bad.)

Many of y’all have been asking me to post something with me singing on it.

It’s not a solo, and really–it’s the silliest song the Dickens caroling group I perform with every year sings, but I like it. And I was on a deadline to submit it for Neil’s annual “Christmahanukwanzaakah” bloggity concert. (Which means a whole bunch of bloggers dork around on video and submit holiday musical selections.) SO, I asked the lovely people I perform with if they would let me grab a quick video clip after tonight’s performance.

So, here ya go:

P.S. That was hot, no? Especially the beginning where I’m asking about having a garbage bag in the shot.

P.P.S. And when I say “hot” I mean that both literally and figuratively.

P.P.P.S. It gets TOASTY in that getup.

P.P.P.P.S. It probably didn’t help that I was wearing the faux-fur “Svetlana boots of shame” underneath that get up.

P.P.P.P.P.S. I mean, if I chose to wear such warm foot wear I probably should have chosen to go all “traditional” like Scottish dudes when they wear kilts with the rest of my ‘under apparel’.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Which is probably way too much information for everyone, so I will move on to something else.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Like how those bonnets are a bitch to sing in. You can’t hear anything but yourself.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Driving in a hoop skirt isn’t exactly easy, either.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Nor is trying to don all that gay apparel by yourself, either.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I won’t even get into how hard it is to get out of.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Especially while you’re trying to get out of it in a car.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Especially if that car is a Volkswagen that has a flipping WHEEL for a reclining mechanism.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Because, really, nothing can make me feel more bitter and BAH! HUMBUG! than having a hoopskirt half over my head and blindly trying to fumble to CRANK A WHEEL to recline my seat so I can get a bit more room to maneuver the piles of material around my face. (Or, you know, breathe.)

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. But in the end, it’s an HONOR to perform in such a fun, gorgeously-clad group of singers, so it’s all good.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I need more cowbell.

*So much feedback on Twitter/Facebook and email asking for a bit of just me singing that, against my better judgement, I whipped this little Latin ditty out. It’s in my low voice because I have a raging sinus infection and sore throat still. And bedhead. And my dishwasher is going. Over all? This is just a HOT VIDEO, Y’ALL. (I seriously may regret this.) (If there are crickets in the comments and my fragile ego is bruised I will hunt each of you who asked for this down and give you my bricks of the hideous cake filled with bits of rubber passing as fruit in them that I inevitably get every year!) ;)