All of the past five weekends (well, plus rehearsals, so that's what...a billion? Several months worth at least) of physical abuses/overuses/misuses have come home to roost in my bones. Plus Sunday's closing evening of moving EVERYTHING in the ticket office out/around so that furniture and props from all around the faire could be moved IN. Then everything I'd just moved out, moved back in. Then moved around so that I could GET to the things that will have to be got to before opening next year. And yesterday's marathon session of inventorying, cleaning out, throwing out, re-adjusting everything in there, moving the leftover kegs and cases of mead and does nothing in this damn building weigh less than 50 pounds?
And while I can't claim that it was egregiously hot -- that ticket office is usually 20 degrees hotter than the surrounding area, so it was yet ONE MORE DAY of sweating like a hog. Plus, there's something about that office that inspires every fly on site to move in for an orgy. Because the only thing worse than feeling like Lord of the Flies...no, really, I felt like a decomposing hog, covered in sweat and mouse pee and dust....is having fliest land on you while engaged in coitus. The flies, not me. I'm not often not in the mood, but let me tell you, that office, in post-faire temperature and condition is a mood-killer.
Followed, of course, by Mother Nature getting one more bitch-slapping at us -- high winds, lightening, torrential downpour and HAIL. Again. Because, really, having half the stuff in the car sopping wet can be topped only by two thousand of said post, mid and pre-coital flies zooming into the car right before we drive off and spending the rest of the drive resisting being shooed out of the car.
Then 2 1/2 hours drive home, thanks to rain and traffic. Only to hear that we can't drink our water and they don't recommend bathing in it, due to a water main break. I figure that remaining coated in Hanta-virus mouse turds, fly spit and whatever cholera-inducing fug was floating around the Porta-potties and general faire site has got to be worse than risking whatever may have seeped into the water system during a time of low-pressure.
So, although we got rinsed off in the torrential downpour that chose to shut off right AFTER we got the last box/bag/sodden mass of something, I still felt the need to rinse in the possibly poisonous shower.
Then it was off to pick up the dogs from the dogsitter and some bottled water for toothbrushing and drinking. But of course, we also had power outages, so I had to battle stupid-induced traffic snarls to get to the low-rent safeway, which was, of course, OUT of any kind of bottled water product. Off to another store, which thankfully DID have water. And finally, sometime after 8pm, clutching my Peruvian roast chicken and dragging my two hounds, I got to get home and stay home. And manage to stay awake until 9pm.
Other than physically, I began the day in high spirits and go-get-'em attitude...but that wore off at 10:30 and now I am killing time until I can reasonably go to lunch. I found myself staring at the latest plastic resin market report and I was caught on this sentence like a frog on a heronbeak:
"With most steam crackers clinging to light feed slates, Propylene supply remains short."
And thinking okay, I have no idea what a steam cracker is...nor a feed slate...and I could fairly easily research it and really, it doesn't actually matter -- I've learned what I came here for, which is that there will be no short term relief in Prop prices -- but I couldn't move away from it. I found myself hypnotized by it, paralyzed, and the only alternative was to put my head down on the desk and shut my eyes....
So, here I am, hiding from the Svengali of steam crackers and feed slates. Thinking that if I'd had a modicum of sense, I would have stretched last night before I went to bed and this all wouldn't have been so damn painful.
Although the bruise on the tip of my shoulder is carrot-induced and wouldn't have been helped by stretching.
And, to those who asked, no, I STILL don't know why the hell I do it, because the physical, mental and psychic beatings I've received this past season were freaking fierce. Or I'm old. Or both. Or it's old. It's entirely possible that it was no worse. But maybe working a 50 hour/week job and being pecked to death by ducks on a personal level tipped the balance in a bad way.
And the satisfaction of having played a major role in making something big happen...and the thanks and support and love of friends...are feeling a bit like trying to treat a car accident victim with a bandaid and an aspirin. A really great aspirin. A really big bandaid...but still. I find myself mentally standing on the sidelines with family and friends thinking..."maybe she needs professional help..."
I could be relieved because it's over -- but really, it's not. Now comes the bookkeeping, the wrapping up, the staffing, the planning, the reporting, the filing, the...sigh. Oh, and the reviews and feedback...which I won't even look at for weeks, because the very last thing I need is someone telling me that what we REALLY need at faire is flush toilets and shower facilities and really, we need to spend more money on advertising because the only way to make money is to spend money...and dozens of other choice nuggets that are mostly good-intentioned and really don't deserve me bursting into flames, growing fangs, horns and claws and rasping "No sh*t, Sherlock" in a sulphurous blast of withering sarcasm. So I'll just collect them and set them aside until my fabulous friends have re-booted my sense of humor...because I am running the MicroSoft Vista of tolerance right now, let me tell you.
Once last bit of pissiness: Look, until the roofer comes to put the new roof on, could you please stop f-ing raining? Could we have just one bloody week of drought? Please? I am a woman on the verge. Whether that's breakdown, going up into a belltower or just biting the head off an innocent victim, I'm not sure...but I shouldn't be pushed right now, okay?
PS -- those of you who don't know me well enough to know that my bitchy and depressed is only millimeters away from my shoulder shrug and my funny...relax, this is not a cry for help. I don't need poor-babying. My self-pity overfloweth. Just keep making fun of me until I snap out of it.