|Even my eyeballs ache...
||[May. 29th, 2007|08:57 am]
|||||XTC, Rag and Bones Buffet||]|
Apparently, sometime during the night, someone ripped off my legs, beat me soundly with them, then re-attached them. Badly.
And I didn't even wake up for it. I can feel the backs of my eyeballs rasping around inside my skull for I have clearly used up even the energy reserves there. I feel like that chair at Ikea, in the plexiglass box that spends all day just being whomped by that special Swedish whomper-thingy.
Look, it's hard enough to do a three day weekend at Faire. The whole Amazon rainforest climate thing really makes it that much harder. I know several people have written articles and screeds on "so you want to run a renaissance faire" that discuss all sorts of very valid points that really should convince any sane person to run away. But they do miss some of the finer points. Here's the Cliff's Notes version. For the third day in a row, it's near 100 degrees, with stifling humidity. You might as well be stuffed in a fat man's arm pit.
Your first aid person is out with food poisoning, which is already your full dose of irony for the day. Half of the people working your ticket booth and front gate haven't shown up, or are running hours late or have been abducted by aliens. It is 5 minutes away from opening gate and the portajohn people have NOT shown up to pump the johns...and there is precious little toilet paper to put in the few johns that are not full to the brim. There's been a run on cider and the person who's run out to pick up the extra kegs...seems to have taken the key to the beer cooler with him/her on the 2 hour journey to civilization and alcohol. And several of your beer kegs have chosen this moment to kick. Your storyteller is out sick with laryngitis, you've got cast going down left and right with heat-related ailments, we have used up every 5 dollar bill left in the county and apparently every trash can liner we owned. And you're stuck in the ticket booth, which is pretty much an EZ-Bake oven at this point, with only a battery powered fan and a dog bowl full of ice to keep you cool. Sweating so much that you have to wrap your hand in a paper towel so that you can keep the ink from running as you fill out the gift certificates for the costume contest. And you get "notes" from a vendor who's come just for this weekend and his/her feedback is that your faire needs electricity, running water and showers in the camping area and next season we should work harder on putting the portajohns where people can get to them faster. And you just barely squeak "Yeah, okay, we'll work on that" when really you just want to snap his/her head off and secretly vow to sandwich them next year right between two portajohns so they can enjoy the eau de blue stuff at close range and see how they like that.
But 8 hours later, it's all worked out and you've watched people come and play in the fat man's armpit and heard them say all sorts of nice things -- patrons walking up to the ticket booth and overhearing one of them say "You're going to love this. It's way smaller than Maryland, but it's just crawling with cast and they're totally going to want to play with us; it's so cool. I'm sure they have cast at Maryland, but you never get to see them."
And you've watched all sorts of other people sweat their patoots off right next to you -- just because they like to volunteer, or they want their kids to have a good time, or just because....they're damn nice people who like contributing. I don't know, for the thanks? How can you possibly thank them enough? For the glory? Ummmmm. Thank goodness for crazy, messed up people who are driven to volunteer under insane, inhumane conditions, that's all I can say.
And my dogs who love the bunny. And the good folks in the hound tent who look after them and put up with a short-attention span sometime fewterer. And Fetch, who looks after my stuff and my dogs so well that I can take care of everything else.
But enough of the thank you speech...no time for maudlin today. The pirate's moving in. And it's going to be ugly. Oh, wonderful in the end, but the actual moving of the stuff...sigh. I'm a stuff person. He's a stuff person. My soon to be ex is a stuff person. And 90% of his stuff is still in the house because he's moved in with his girlfriend who is...also a stuff person.
I'm resisting the urge to just take a flamethrower to it all. The plus to burning down the house would be that the friends who are coming to help wouldn't find out what a craphole the house is right now. At Halloween, I can at least use the excuse "Hey, excuse the mess, I've been so busy getting ready for Scary Perry that I haven't had time to pick up. Or clean. Or do anything that didn't involve prop-making." And, plus, it's DARK. Now...broad daylight. Sure, I can use the "hey, sorry for the mess, but I'm in the middle of Faire season" but really, it's just a matter of time until they figure out that...it's pretty much always like this, since anymore, it's always something. I should have a big party in August, the only month where I even have a chance to clean house like a normal person.