|A Wicked Good Time
||[Feb. 13th, 2007|11:43 am]
|||||Moxy Fruvous, Bargainville||]|
Well, we did NOT get snowed in again. I had packed my snow boots, because of course, if you're prepared for bad weather, it won't happen. And it worked. The Wicked Winter Renaissance Faire in lovely Edison, New Jersey...snow-free because of me.
Thankfully, the Faire seemed to have worked out many of the kinks of its first year -- there was food, it was somewhat edible. This time we had a space ahead of time and all of the vendor stuff was under control. It didn't snow and there was a steady flow of participants. Got a chance to visit with some friends. I felt as if it was definitely worth if for the Hounds, as we had several folks really interested in adoption and we scored donation-wise.
Which makes my next comment "Maybe they should let pretty people in for free, just to encourage them" seem particularly snarky. I know, I suck. I'm just saying...if I've got to sit there for 12 hours, watching the parade, I deserve just a smidge more eye candy, that's all. I mean, I'm glad you are comfortable enough in your own skin to be you, and wear what you want and flaunt what you've got...but really, invest in a full length mirror. I'm sure I wouldn't have been such a bitch if it hadn't been for that damn concrete floor, loading dock doors, cinder block walls, and the acoustic cacophony that ensued. Those giant sodium or whatever they are, lights, way up in the ceiling, with that almost imperceptible flicker. I know from working Camelot Christmas that this is a very, very bad combination for me, and totally stresses me out. Maybe that's not enough of an excuse for saying to one woman in the rest room..."Um, hon, I'm pretty sure your ass crack isn't supposed to be showing in a belly dancer's costume." I did NOT say "You know, there are many traditional belly dance costumes that do not expose your belly....and its veritable Mayan temple of fat rolls. Geeze, the only reason I knew it was your ass crack was because the line was vertical." (Although that last bit was cab wit courtesy of thatliardiego, since I'm pretty sure my brain went from "fat rolls" to "geeeeesh.")
Oh, I know, I'm just jealous because I live in fear that my pot belly will be discovered. Thanks, Mom. Other people revel in the glories of their own bodies, I'm still trying to be comfortable with shirts that just might, in the right light, reveal that I have a little back fat.
Anyway...screw my own self-esteem, that's boring. All in all, a successful event, although 12 hours is just tooooooo bloody long of a day. That's not including the dressing, the packing, the toting and hauling, the setting up and breaking down of the booth, the toting and hauling back to the car, etc.
Once again, we tested the limits of a cheap hotel room, cramming four people, two greyhounds (who thankfully, were not farting this year), and copious amounts of food and alcohol. It was different, of course, as last year, it was Brad and Bagel sharing a room with Angi and myself; this year, Drew and James taking the whatever-the-hell-is-the-opposite-of-the-word-"distaff" role. Much quieter evenings, needless to say -- although they were fine roommates. Brad was just a temporary absence, Bagel a more permanent one -- and a little hard for me, since that was probably when we cemented our non-blood sibling relationship. But I'd brought along a bottle of Balvenie and Angi had brought the plastic cups and we had a toast in his memory: "Dude, that sh** is $80 a bottle, slow the hell down!" Oh, sure, I said something slightly more meaningful, but I know that bastard, he wasn't paying attention to any of THAT.