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?

Not again. I am too old for this!

There are no nice acne pictures to go with this blog posting. Sawry. Just imagine your last outbreak and I'll go from there.

What I'm Listening To: Ready? OK. by Matt and Kim

First off, I'd like to say thanks for sticking by me while things got nutsy over here. I'm going to try to get this blog back on track again on at least a bi-weekly basis, even though I'm kinda disappointed that my blogging hasn't reached the ears of Tina Fey, and inspired her to make my postings into a mini-series about clubbing in Milwaukee, with Megan Fox as me. Ha. Not that continuing my nobody status in the world of fabulousity would deter me from creating this awesome piece of literature for you, my adoring fans!!

As you may have figured out by now, I am no longer a teenager. However, much to my dismay, my skin has not realized that time has continued on. So every month, like clockwork, my face decides to reward my stressed-out lifestyle by placing a little gift...or two..or three...on the most visible parts of my face. And sometimes the gifts aren't so little. Yes, folks, you guessed it, it's the gift of acne.

The gifts come in many shapes and sizes and they are definitely made especially for me. Thanks Face! You are so thoughtful!! I could totally use another oil gusher on my super dry skin. Yay! The gifts range from those sneaky blackheads, or the little red bump, or those splotchy pink thingies, all the way up to the biggest and best gift of all, my favorite, cystic acne, or Mt Vesuvius. You know the ones -- big nasty welts in the most prominent place, like between your eyebrows so you look like you're sporting a third eye. And they hurt like a bitch, and they take weeks to go away. Yes, I'm talking about those ones. Arrggghh, I hate them.

And I've tried every cream, lotion, face soap, acne medication, and masque in the book. So do not go there with another recommendation as to what I should be using. Hell, I'm at the point now where I'd probably rub roadkill on my face if someone told me it was going to make my zits disappear.

And I'll tell you one thing that isn't two things. I swear to god do not tell me to LEAVE IT ALONE! How many times have I read in every stupid ladies magazine "Don't pinch your zits! They'll get worse and just scar and so just leave them alone!!" That advice is birdseed and you know it. There is not ONE PERSON in this entire universe who can see a zit on their face in the mirror, smile serenely and say, "oh, I'm just gonna watch that beautiful zit grow big and strong! Maybe it'll get on the debate team! Maybe it will be valedictorian! I'm never ever ever gonna touch it!" And if you find that person, please slap them for me. If you can watch your zit and never touch it, I'm proud of you. And you probably think the Jonas Brothers are the shit, too, right? Sheesh, please go sit down and let me rant.

Because, hell, I'm gonna say it: There is no greater pleasure that popping your zits. I'm sorry, I am just coming out with it. Come on, it's like picking your nose. We all do it, but no one wants to admit it.

So now that we're in the thick of it, let's talk turkey. Yes, I know pinching is a bad thing. But let's get past that to the good stuff and discuss the various categories of pinching.

...long pause here...

Okay, I guess I am gonna curtail this right now, because seriously I started typing out all the stuff that happens when you pick your face, and I'm kinda getting ill just thinking about it. Maybe it's too early to discuss all the excitement of what your body can excrete out of the pores in your lovely epidermis, so I guess you'll have to catch me to discuss this topic when I'm in a zitty mood. Ha!

But hey, I'm 'fessing up now about my habit in the first place, so I guess that's a step in the sharing direction. Sorry if you think it's gross, or wrong, or whatever. But to me, it's so hard to just "leave it alone", so I might as well come out and tell you all about my dirty little secret. I would love to find others just like me, though. Wouldn't it be great if there was like a Zit Poppers Anonymous for this addiction? I would join in a heartbeat. We could sit around and swap stories about our zit triumphs and tragedies, and seriously, I have a lot more tragedies than triumphs when it comes to the craters in my face.

If only I had listened when my mom told me that picking = scarring. SIGH. Whatever. Bottom line, I'm looking for suggestions on "face lighteners", whatever that means! And hey, get your hands away from your face, you sicko!

Still waiting....

I know, you're all peeved because I haven't posted lately. Well, here's an interesting article on "blog apathy" from the New York Times.

Not that I thought my blog would make me famous (okay, I was kinda hoping to meet Paris Hilton, but oh well. I'll settle for fellow blogger Perez Hilton at this point) or rich (because I'm happy working 8 hours a day...not!) or popular (uh, chua. Popular means not a slut, right? ha!). I just thought it would be a tad more fulfilling, than, let's say, brushing my teeth.

So even though I haven't achieved worldwide stardom at my advanced age, I still have my 7 core readers, so thank you for sticking by me. Since I started this blog I've realized how tough it is to write spontaneously, and for a very smart and discerning audience, no less. I feel like I need to raise the bar for myself every time I open this blog application to write a new entry, and sometimes that's intimidating, even to a great writer like myself. ha! So please be patient with me, because even though I'm not writing up a storm right now, I haven't forgot my peeps!!

So stay tuned and I'll be back...soon! Thanks!!

Saw-ry! See you next week!

Things have been hectic around here, so I promise to have my next blog post by Wednesday! So as Gilley would say, "Saw-ry!"

Thanks for your patience as my exciting life continues...

Roommates Not Wanted!

What I'm Listening To: Cavorting by the Corteeners

Ahhh, roommates. All of us at one time have had one...or two...or maybe more, and maybe all at the same time! My time on this earth has been domestically shared with some wonderful, and not so wonderful people, who've provided me with some very funny stories over the years. Since I was spared having to share a room with my sister through most of my childhood, we'll start at the beginning of my roommate odyssey...college.

I was first introduced to the joy that is having a roommate when I started college. My very first roomie was a lovely girl I will call Kim. (All names and places have been altered slightly to protect the innocent...namely, me!). Kim was supposedly the prettiest girl to ever hit this teensy school (have you guessed where yet??). And since I was Kim's roommate, I got to live vicariously through this celestial creature, the Midwest's answer to Cindy Crawford. "Hey, can I come to your room?" some hot guy would whisper drunkenly in my ear at the local watering hole as I sipped my vodka gimlet. OMG! A hot boy wants to come to my room? Oh yeah!! But of course, this request was often followed by the charming phrase, "I hear you live with Kim! She is so hot!!!" *rolls eyes* So regardless, I left after my sophomore year.

I transferred to a huge state university my junior year, and since I thought living in the dorms with the freshmen might be a good way to meet new people, I braved the roommate scene again. Bad move. Another cinder-block dorm room, another "hottie" roommate. This time around I was stuck with this blonde bimbo who wore clouds of Joop perfume and thought that she was all that and a bag of chips because once she danced with Screech from Saved by the Bell at a club in Chicago. When she forced us to install bunkbeds in our room, and then insisted I take the top one, that started us on the downward spiral. Each morning I was greeted by another fresh bruise on my skull when I whacked my noggin on the ceiling since, duh, I forgot I was on the top bunk. Again. Arrrrggggh! After she called me uncouth during one of our many bicker sessions about her horrible and loud music addiction and annoyingly loud telephone conversations while I was studying, that was about the end of the line. So I forced this president of the Toad the Wet Sprocket Fan Club to help me hang up my life-sized Red Hot Chili Peppers poster on the largest wall available -- you know the one, where they're nude except for the strategically-placed sweat socks? -- and then finally I felt we were pretty much even. Ha. Suck on that, chickie!

After I finally graduated from college, I scooted off across the country to California. Yes, truly the land of the nuts and flakes. And I think all the nuts wanted to room with me. Since rent was astronomical for even a one bedroom apartment, I had no choice but to start the roommate cycle again. My Californian roommates came and went in this order: The Narcissist, who totally got off on me watching her get dressed, undressed, and then dressed again; The Lesbian, who couldn't make it through an evening at home without burning at least 10 sticks of Nag Champa incense; The Ageless Klepto, who decided that my closet, my computer and basically everything in my room was for her personal use and who wouldn't tell me her age for love or money; and finally, The Stripper. Or as she liked to call herself, exotic dancer. ha!

Many of my favorite roomie stories involve The Stripper. When I was first interviewing for a new roommate after The Lesbian left, it seemed impossible to find someone decent to live with. They were all too pretty, or too dirty, or too weird or just not right. But I like The Stripper, mostly because she seemed cool even though she had these freaky 3-inch-long bright red fingernails. When I asked her what she did she told me she was a "night auditor at a bank", whatever that meant. But one late night after she moved in, when I caught her leaving the apartment wearing a huge blonde wig, Lucite shoes and a teensy dress that didn't even cover her tootie, she 'fessed up.

So we sat down at the kitchen table, and it all tumbled out. She was a dancer, she said. And seriously, lil ol' innocent me was like, "A dancer? Like what, ballet?" She giggled and said, no, exotic dancer. At a gentlemens' club downtown. After she told me how much she made a night, I was shocked! I stepped back and took a good hard look at The Stripper, who was at the most 5'2", had a flat chest and dishwater blonde hair. This woman was making THAT much money? Come on!! But when she showed me her stacks of singles, her dancer's wardrobe of shaggy Farrah Fawcett wigs, skimpy dresses and a shelf-load of strappy platform sandals that made my feet hurt just looking at them, well, what could I say? Hey, if you can pay the rent, I can deal.

After that, our time as roomies seemed to get silly. Like her perchant for adopting stray animals, including a white cat she named Fancy, after the cat's food. Very original. Or the loud spanking sounds that often emanated from her bedroom, followed by yelps of manly delight at all hours of the night. An interesting creature, to be sure. When she finally got engaged to one of the bouncers at her club, I even got an invitation to their destination wedding in, you guessed it, Vegas. Whoohooo. Sadly, I did not attend what I'm sure would have been quite the wild bash, spankings and all.

When I moved back home, I promised myself one thing: no more roommates. And I stuck to it until I got married. But I have to say that living with another person is a total learning experience. You learn how much you're willing to put up with. You learn how passive aggressive you can truly be. You learn about sharing, stealing and "hey, you weren't gonna eat that, were you?" So for all of you readers with roommate stories, I'd love to hear them! And to all of you still living the roommate dream, good luck with that. At least you'll have funny stories to tell at the bar! ha!

Nick and Norah are infinitely annoying.

What I'm Listening To: Signal and Sign by Maximo Park

Last night Netflix brought me the stupidest movie ever -- Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. Go ahead and read all about it on Wikipedia, I don't really care. I just would like to share my observations with you, my adoring public.

I don't even know why I put this movie into my Netflix queue. Michael Cera should be my kryptonite I hate his acting so much. Superbad, Juno, whatever other lame films he's been in -- sorry, but it doesn't take a lot of talent to wear a zip-up hoodie in the prerequisite cool color of the moment, shuffle around, strum a guitar occassionally and mumble your lines. So whatever, Michael Cera. You're a dork.

And the film's supposedly awesome soundtrack that everyone raves about, peppered with cute little cameos by indie rockers and adorable C-list actors? All I heard was a toneless drone of jangly guitars in the background as I watched a bunch of barely talented nobodies mime their way through a forgettable plot. Where was the "touching coming-of-age adventure" that I'd been promised? Where was "the millennium's answer to Sixteen Candles"? Or just show me all these fabulous stylistic echos of American Graffiti? WTF. I just saw a boring music video posing as a movie, with one distinct message: "We are kewler than you, ya fossil!" And since I'm old enough to be the mom of the entire cast, I guess I better agree. Sheesh.

So on that note, this Mee-Maw-Maw would like to point out some of the more poignant scenes in this lovely film masterpiece where I paused the DVD, turned to my Pee-Paw, and said, "WTF!"

Not getting carded at any bar -- Supposedly Nick and Norah are seniors in high school, which means they have probably what, two, three years til they hit legal drinking age? And yet, the movie shows them repeatedly waltzing right into ANY bar in NYC without being carded. WTF! I'm sorry, but when I was a senior in high school, I had panic attacks about even getting carded at Bailey's, that all-ages alternative club over in Brookfield, much less trying to get into a real bar. And forget about going to see some random hipster band at a city club -- we were forced to make do with our high school loser band U4EA (featuring future TV anchorman Joel Kleefish, no kidding!) play in our school cafeteria. But hey, I'll suspend my belief for this movie.

Drunk-ass friends -- In my many years here on Planet Chug-a-lug, I have had my share of being the drunk-ass friend as well as having to take care of my drunk-ass friends as our fun and frolic wore on into the wee hours. But one thing isn't two things, if I had a drunk-ass friend wearing a really short dress and super high heels, I would NEVER just nonchalantly let her wander all over town til the sun comes up or until I found her, whichever came first. And I'm just talking about Milwaukee! In NYC? WTF. I wouldn't even leave my worst enemy alone in the Big Apple at night. That's just cruel! I don't care how many times you've fallen down, puked or whatever while having a big night out, that's just not right to leave anyone alone anywhere when they are completely in the bag. Yeah, not good.

Underwire bras -- Kat Dennings, who plays Norah, looks to be sporting some honkin' boobins in this film, and she's not doing them any fashion favors by hiding her sexy self under a big bulky cardigan. I think Norah took a sick day when they handed out "The Top Heavy Girl's Guide to Undergarments" (which I ghost wrote, btw!) because later on we find out that Norah's over-the-shoulder boulder holder of choice is a sports bra. WTF. Then when Nick's gay band buddies try to give her a "Nick's great, go for it!" pep talk in their van, one of the buddies starts digging in a box of women's bras and other female accoutrements that he just happens to have handy! He pulls out a red underwire bra, insists Norah puts it on, and voila! perfect fit and nice cleavage to boot! WTF. What gay man drives around with a box of ladies underwear in his car, much less tosses perfect-fitting bras at strange girls? No gay man in Milwaukee, that's for sure, or I'd have me a whole new bra wardrobe! Whoohoo! Also, if you have big boobs, there's no way you don't own at least one underwire bra. I am not going to suspend belief on that fact of life, ladies!

Electric Lady Studios -- Turns out that Kat is the daughter of the owner of Electric Lady music recording studios, where such greats as Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and many other infamous bands recording their most enduring music. But Kat acts like this historic music studio, where legends where born, is no big deal, and frankly, she kinda gives the impression she thinks it's super boring and dated. WTF! I mean, half these narcissistic kids born in the 90s don't even remember Led Zeppelin. She'd probably get more excited if you told her Britney sang there once. Snort!

Used chewing gum -- One of the most disgusting running jokes in this movie is how they all pass around this nasty-ass chewing gum, from Norah's friend Caroline, to Norah, to Nick, etc. etc. This gum has been inside of more mouths than (fill in your own gutter thought here!). It's even been dropped into a puke-filled toilet, and then Caroline put it back in her mouth!! WTF. I almost puked myself just watching this running gag. Get it? Gag?! Ha! What, are these kids so poor that they can't afford to spit out old gum for a fresh piece? What is with over-chewed gum -- after 20 minutes it doesn't even taste good anymore!! I almost expected to see Willie Wonka pop out from behind a tree to scold these faux-Violet Beauregards about chomping gum like a cow! Where's an Oompa-Loompa when you need some comic relief, huh?

I guess after all that I can't really recommend this movie to anyone, unless you own a Yugo, hide out at some indie records store, are under the age of 20, or are in a NYC gay band with your video on YouTube. Kids these days! WTF! Well, gotta go eat my pretzels and watch Pretty in Pink for the 100th time. Or was that Legally Blonde? I keep forgetting!