|One down, Eight to go...
||[Aug. 25th, 2008|09:47 am]
Like so many things in my life, a love-hate, conflicted type of relationship I have with faire. I love being there, love seeing friends, love the "work". Fulfills my need for community. (It's a church, it's a 'con, it's a Rotary Club, it's a cult. Someday, when you want to just sit and have a beer and be alone with your thoughts, ask me to get on my soapbox about how our primal need for community and how cities have created so many ills by taking away a natural community. Bring a pair of earplugs and you'll be able to be have some peace and quiet there at the bar -- but LOOK like you're being social because I will yammer all night long about it.) |
But damn, I resent the time it takes away from...normal stuff. Or non-normal stuff. A good night's sleep, a clean house, sitting on my ass watching television without having to stuff the list of "things which must be done" deep down a bottle of wine. I resent the 2 pounds (in one weekend!) that have already put a death grip on my body thanks to the well-meant snacks and goodies and eating stupid stuff like breaded mushrooms for lunch. A co-worker made the fatal error of telling me in the elevator that he had spent the weekend relaxing and had spent so much time in his hammock this weekend that he read two books. And all I could think was "if I murder him here in the elevator, surely they will catch me."
I love the attention, the compliments, the laughter, the companionship....but then am embarrassed when my bota of social runs dry and I think I will go mad if I have to exchange pleasantries with one more person and I really desperately need to find someplace where NO ONE will talk at me. But then I see someone I've missed dearly and I wring one more drop from the bag. But then it's just even emptier for when the next person wants to tell me....and they probably think I'm an ass for being abrupt or short. When really, it's just that I only have 8 hours of social in me and it's a 12 hour day. I love you, it's just bad timing meeting my inner hermit.
At the end of day one, my lower extremities were in full revolt. My damn toenails hurt, that's how bad it was. The bad knee, the bad ankle (yes, one on each leg, that way limping doesn't even really help) were kicking up a fuss that...metaphors escape me, but morphine would have been nice. My skin has gotten so sensitive (which is good in so many ways, but not in this case) that anywhere there was a crease or seam or pressure, I was breaking out in pre-hives (that incredible ants-gnawing-on-me sensation that as long as I can ignore it, may actually go away. Scratch and release the histamine and....allergic reaction from hell).
But, I have a Big Brain and have developed coping strategies: Taping of the ankles is a good thing. Remembering scissors so that when I can no longer bear the tape at the end of the day, is better than hacking at the tape with a blade. Laying down flat on the floor of the Pyrate tent for 15 minutes morning and afternoon seemed to refresh both my legs/feet and my inner hermit. Especially when the sunlight filters through the moonroof in the top of the tent and there's lovely music playing on the WH stage. Scheduling personal time to go out and play with patrons...people I don't know is a relief. And of course, remembering to bring the morphine...
I've also picked my privy. Yes, well, when you have to pee as often as I do, it's sort of comforting to have a "regular" privy -- not that I won't use another one, but I do have a small theory as to what makes a privy...less-used, if you will. And I apply that theory and so far, mostly, it seems to work. The theory has been borne out again this year and that consoles me. I may not have the sense to limit the amount of time and energy this "hobby" sucks out of my life, but I have mad privy-picking skills.
Ever since I heard a Dane claim the "Purse Holder" in the House of Blue was a great engineering feat, I no longer worry about where I stand and deliver.
There is no feat of human undertaking that remains uncorrupted after 9 hours of drunks in Revel Grove.
"but I do have a small theory as to what makes a privy...less-used, if you will"
So, OK, I just have to ask:
What is the privy picking theory?? Is is the ones in the corners? left row 2nd (not 3rd) from the end? Only use handicap stalls? What?
Well, revealing my theory, ("my theory that I have, that is to say, which is mine, is mine" for you Anne Elk fans) would mean that it would quickly lose its status as the privy less-used, wouldn't it?
But you, you've earned it. Off-line. Over a whiskey.
Deal. I'll provide the whiskey :)
My favorite privy...is mine. I pride myself on only using a couple of patron privies in the past 4 years. Otherwise, our nice clean private box behind the booth will do. And on that note, should you ever be on our end of the festival, your welcome to ask for the combo for the lock and pay a penny.
Oh, an on that note, this is Shane "Brambleberry Wildwose" Odom, intrepid mask maker and Greenman, found your journal through Dash. Friended you right on up. Hope ya don't mind. Rub Brad's head for me and I say howdy this weekend.
I recognize that smile...welcome.
Thank you for the kind offer of privyhospitality! Consider the dome burnished for good luck. Will try to get over to your end of the site this weekend.