Huzzah Bitches! 2009 -- Our Second Visit to Renn Faire

What I'm Listening To: Undercover Martyn by the Two Door Cinema Club


Think of the happiness of your birthday, the excitement of New Year’s Eve, the anticipation level of Christmas and the gastronomical delights of Thanksgiving -- all rolled into one day. That is exactly how I felt last Saturday, the day Jim and I made our now yearly pilgrimage to the Bristol Renaissance Faire with Anne and Dan. OMG, it is beyond words. Seriously, don’t know how I’m gonna write this blog, because I am speechless with joy. Ha ha. Me, speechless. That’s funny!

Maybe you read my blog posting last year about my de-virginizing trip to Renn Faire last year. Maybe you remember my apprehension, my self-consciousness, my overall concern that maybe Renn Faire was gonna be, uh, dumb. I have done a total 180 on that one! I am now a convert to the religion that is Renn Faire, people! This is now a annual summer event that cannot be ignored! Let’s review, shall we?

Picture a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, blue skies and warm breezes. Anne and Dan drive over to our house, and we drive the 40 minute trip south to the Renn Faire, which is near Kenosha. Dan is humming “Greensleeves” all the way there, as we rhapsodize about the dragon dicks and butterfly potato chips that await our gaping maws once we arrive.

We park in a free parking lot (uh, it was an open field, but whatever!) super far away from the fair, and hoof it the ½ mile to the front gates to buy our tickets, with coupons grasped in our sweaty paws. Once inside, Anne suggests signing up for the Renn Quest pub crawl that starts at 2 PM. On our way to sign up, of course we have to buy drinks and stuff our faces as prep, so we grab some beers, then it’s on to the food court! Anne and I buy jalapeno poppers, Jim buys some curly fries (which I eat half of, btw) and Dan goes off in search of an ATM.

I should point out that this particular Saturday is “Costume Contest Day”, which means that anybody who has a hankering to dress up as any character they like may compete in a contest judged by wandering random people who vote at the end of the day. So that means on our way to get drinks we pass two Han Solos, four fairies representing the seasons of the year, a tavern wench and a guy who looks like Sting dressed in bondage gear with huge black and purple wings attached to his back. (What’s that, like the goth Icarus or something? Sheesh! I gotta get out more!!) Of course we take many many photos of these amazing creatures, such as the multiple women wearing chain-mail bras (uh, what fashion trend am I missing here?), especially the one who seemingly forgot her underpants, or the guy with the red face paint dressed entirely in black who seemed to be stalking us. My personal faves, though, were the garden variety nerds who wanted to fit in, but not be identified as full on twelve-sided-dicers, as Mickey would say. So these were the guys who threw a cape over their cargo shorts, and called it a costume. Uh, no. Scary face mask, ball-gag and a set of 3’ wide real feather wings is a costume. A cape over cargo shorts? Not so much!

So even with the forced drinking on the pub crawl – where Dan won the Simon Says game and I almost won a game of Buzz with a bunch of drunks who couldn’t seem to get past the number 20 without screwing up – we didn’t seem to get too inebriated. Maybe it was all the fabulous food – which we did not eat in the proper order btw!! – dragon dicks (aka, bagel-covered hot dogs), butterfly potato chips n’ cheese (chip it up, bitches!), ice cream, sautéed mushrooms, cheese fritters, and curly fries, and I forget what else, but it was all super good. No turkey legs this year, though. Sigh. It was just too much greasy wonderfulness to top with a turkey leg. Oh, that, and that line was waaaaay too long. All washed down with ample beers and hard ciders! Yum!

With the puppy waiting for us at doggie daycare, we had to head home a little earlier than we would have liked so we could pick her up, but even a 5:30 PM departure time did not hamper our spirits! We wrapped up the day with a tarot reading apiece for me and Anne, and a little raunchy candle sniffing session – what does that candle smell like again, Anne? LOL! With a quick stop for a pee in the porta-potty (the running water seemed to be iffy, so the regular privies were all closed) we headed home.

I have to say, I love love love Renn Faire. Anne and Dan make it super fun, and the food and people watching make it a tough venue to beat! Jim and I are actually considering a trip back just to look at all the Renn Faire merchandise we missed the first time around. But this time I’m going to stop myself before volunteering to sing a tavern song about dragon dicks! Ha!

See at the Renn Faire!!

Isn't rummage just another way to say junk?

What I'm Listening To: We Are Rockstars by Does It Offend You, Yeah?

Rummage sale. Garage Sale. Estate Sale. Moving Sale. I have never seen so many misspelled and crazy-looking jerry-rigged neon-colored sale signs posted in our neighborhood in the whole time we've lived here. They’re everywhere! There are signs tied to trees, light posts, tied on a kid’s back – no kidding, I saw a kid with this makeshift sandwich board rummage sale sign tied to him. Now that’s a fun summer job! Then there are rummage signs taped to some minivan’s rear window, or stuck in the ground with a stake.

And the lettering? Whooeee! I’ve seen signs written in pencil – uh, what are you thinking? I’m gonna get out of the car to read your frickin’ sign, dummy? I’ve seen them written in ballpoint pen – uh, hello! I'm getting up there in years, so my eyesight is not that good, so maybe write with a sharpie or something?? Seriously, though, just drive down any street in Stallis and every couple feet you’ll see some silly sign for some sort of makeshift sale. This is ridiculous. The recession has brought out the Billy Mays in all of us. (RIP, Billy!)

Every morning we drive down S. 76th Street to get on the freeway to go to work. And every morning I see a couple more rummage sale signs. It’s getting out of control. Who’s even buying this stuff? There are so many sales now, there’s no one to buy the crap!

Now I won’t lie, I don’t really like buying used things out of someone’s garage. It’s off-putting to me to purchase something that I don’t know where it’s been, even if it's priced under a buck. For all I know, that nifty blender sitting there was used to make a urine milkshake, or those gorgeous embroidered pillows once cradled your dead grandma’s head when she died in her sleep on the couch. It’s just creepy. Oh, I know, people find awesome stuff all the time and then they go on Antiques Roadshow and retire and all that. But still, you gotta admit sometimes that you're creeped out.

I’m not totally being upfront here, though. Okay, I had my seasons where I'd haunt the local Value Village and buy a vintage winter coat…or two…or three. Shut up, I know. I have like five mink-collared winter coats from the thrift store. And I've been known to buy a few items at the local “vintage” store when it’s caught my fancy. But mostly, if I have a choice, I’ll buy my things brand new – especially underwear. Ha ha!

But back to the trashy rummage-o-rama that has become my side of town in West Allis. (BTW, IS there a trashy side of West Allis? I thought the whole town was trashy! Ha!) You might as well rename our street Seven Mile Fair, for cripes sake, since there’s so many people who’ve decided to become used crap entrepreneurs. I’m almost expecting some freak with no bottom teeth and a mullet to be selling knifes on my next door neighbor’s lawn, his huge scary wife growling at me because I wouldn’t buy one! Or someone selling malnourished puppies across the street! Okay, don’t get me started about Seven Mile Fair. That place is a trip!!!

And have you seen what these people are selling? Okay, I haven’t. I’m too scared to venture over there and take a look because, hey, I might like something. And I really shouldn’t buy any more junk – because you know where it all ends up? That’s right, in our already full-of-junk basement. Let’s just not talk about Casa Reagans’ chock-a-block of crap cramped basement, with the 15 boxes of antique books, and the old furniture, and all my nostalgic memorabilia. I mean, I cannot force myself to throw away my dozens of cassette tapes, or six months' worth of high school notes written between me and my big junior year crush who declined to take me to prom so he could be reunited with his old girlfriend. Come on! He might be a big famous artist right now for all I know -- uh, I haven’t seen him in 20 years! -- and then I could sell these super personal notes he wrote me for oodles of cash. Now only if I could actually find someone who cared about dozens of tiny pieces of folded notebook paper filled with rhapsodies about him selling candy so the senior class could travel to NYC and be all arty. Whateves.

So back to the rummage sale thing. Sorry about my high school tangent there. You all know that it’s my 20 year high school reunion this year, right? Yeah, that’s another blog topic altogether. Hey, have you shopped at any rummage sales this summer? And did you get anything good? Let me know if it smells like pee though, ‘kay?