Phew.
What a weekend.
Ganged up in Joel and Cheri’s borrowed Chevy Blazer. Naturally, Joel was driving, therefore Cheri sat in the wifely passenger sit, relegating Esteban and myself to the “kid” positions in the back seat. Which sucked. Those things are not meant for people who are over 5’6″ tall. It was like crouching the whole time. Then we started moving. Apparently, with the “sport suspension” and the fact that the SUV is taller than it is wide, the backseat should be renamed “The Vomitorium”. We were not even out of Green Bay before the motion sickness started and my mouth started it’s “pre-puke” watering. I believe my face was actually turning a lovely shade of puce. Naturally, Joel and Cheri were fine, as the front seat is not as bouncy and rocky as the back. After putting up with my performance of “Crouching Rider Hurling Dragon” for ten miles, Esteban forced Cheri and I to switch seats so I wouldn’t spew onto the back of her head.
I think that SUV’s were designed for short athletic types. Maybe teenagers. I don’t know. There was absolutely no leg room whatsoever. I thought that it had been bad in the backseat, but in the front, I actually could not even move my feet. They were just stuffed straight forward. The suspension wasn’t much better up there, but at least the mouth-watering stopped. However, from that vantage point, I got to see how close we came to actually tipping over when we took a couple of corners too quickly, so that was a down side.
Finally, got to the hotel. The “Executive Inn” in Bristol. Our room had no curtains. Also the remote didn’t work. Cheri and I left to go in search of ribbon for a hat that the LadyAtWork made to go with my dress (after Carissa insisted that she do so… thanks Carissa! You rock, chica!). We travelled throughout Kenosha in search of peach ribbon or any store which might have something resembling ribbon. At that point, I would have been happy with fishing line even. We found a gardening store and got some there.
Then, returning back to the hotel, we passed a White Castle. Living up in Da Great White Nort’, I do not have exposure to White Castle hamburgers, thus I forced Cheri to go through the drive through. I purchased 10 burgers (or should I say “burgerlettes”?) Mit Fromage. The White Castle staff did not know what “Mit Fromage” meant, so I had to translate. Such peasants. See, I was trying on the haughty Renassiance nobel act at Blanc Ch’teau. I’m such the efficient, non?
An aside here, though: it disturbed me at first that a Decaburger cost less than a 12-pack of Diet Coke. Then I saw how big they were and realized that I was still paying too much, so no loss.
When we returned to my hotel room, we found that our room had turned into Ren Party Central. Joel had made a run to the local liquor store (the nice thing about Wisconsin, it may be hard to find peach ribbon, but there is no shortage of liquor) and purchased beer, Absolut and Red Bull. Thus, all were drinking Red Bull and vodka when we arrived. For those of you who haven’t heard of Red Bull, it’s an energy drink that tastes like liquid Sweet Tarts. And it has twice the caffeine of Mountain Dew. It’s like alchemy, though, as the upper effects of the caffeine interact with the downer effects of the vodka, leaving every Ren Partier in a strange and bizzarre state of being relaxed and also hyperactive.
As I am not a huge drinker, I wandered down to the hotel “Lounge” and they had Karaoke going on. Oh, and I got carded.
Maybe I need to repeat that:
I GOT CARDED!!!!!!!
Twice.
Oh yeah. Uh-huh.
I signed up during a break, figuring I’d belt a song out and then go back up to my room. They had a good selection of songs, so I chose “Gypsy” by Fleetwood Mac. Not my favorite song, but I had a cold, so I figured I could pull off the whole Goaty quality of Stevie Nicks. Then some old drunk guy gets up and does “Friends in Low Places” and it’s awful. Then a drunk chick with no bra gets up and does “Me and Bobby McGee” and it’s dreadful. Yet the sad, sorry people of Kenosha are cheering like she’s Janis Joplin reincarnated.
Then I go up.
I start to sing and I’m not making this up, the whole bar stopped talking. I’m not saying I’m a good singer. I’m not. I’m not that good, seriously. But in comparison to a bunch of dead skunks, a pair of dirty gym socks smells pretty good. Ok, that metaphor didn’t really work, but you know what I meant.
In the middle of my song, some guy comes up and tells me I sing great. That’s great, buddy, but get the fuck off the stage, ‘k? Freak. Then in a bunch of people start “WhOOOOOOOOOOOO”ing me. During the instrumental. Fine, whoooing is good. Jumping up and giggling when you don’t have a bra on is not good. Is there no bra store in the greater Bristol/Kenosha metropolitan area? Why must all of these overly-endowed women wander about without a bra on. It’s not attractive. It’s not even good for your breasts to be hanging like that. They get all saggy and stretch-marky. Sheesh, people. I was alarmed, really.
Then, while I’m singing, a group of people come and claim the table I was sitting at. That’s it. Enough of that shit. I finished my song and walked out of the bar, to the cheers and applause of the drunken braless in the bar.
Back up the room and kick out the revellers and go to sleep. Or try, as the industrial 4000 watt light from the parking lot is shining directly into our curtainless room. I was ruthless. I made Esteban sleep on the side facing the window. He didn’t care, he was pleasantly tired and yet able to go for a twenty-mile run.
The morning, we woke to a blistering hot day. It was already 80 degrees at 9:00 A.M. The plan was that several of us who were dressing up would meet in our garb at the front desk at 8:30 A.M. Esteban and I set our alarm for 7:00 A.M, just so we could accomplish all the prepping ahead of time. We should have known better. Every single thing we’ve ever done with Joel and Cheri, they are not on time. So we’re down at the front desk at 8:30 A.M. I’m in my whole Renaissance getup. And it’s hot. And humid. AT 8:45 A.M, I stroll over to Joel and Cheri’s room. They’re not dressed and Cheri is still in the shower. Fine. So we wait. Then they come and strangely Brian and Kim are not there yet. Then they show up but Kim isn’t wearing her stuff. We have at that point made the decision to not wear our stuff because it was so fucking hot, but we wanted to take some pictures of us in our clothes. Kim throws her skirt on over her shorts and we take some pictures. Which look dumb because Joel left his “Risky Business” sunglasses on during the picture. Duh. I don’t know how I didn’t notice that at the time, but I got the pictures back and now I’m just shaking my head.
By this point, breakfast is screwed so we drive through McDonald’s. I’m pretty happy about this because that means I get a big healthy helping of the world’s best Diet Coke. We waited in the drive-thru for 30 minutes. It sucked. It was hot out.
Then off to the Faire. Which was very fun and very Renaissance-y. We spent too much money. We watched a lot of jousty action.
All Photos are courtesy of Cheri because she’s Da Bomb.
It was very hot. The entire Faire ran out of water. Oddly enough, they didn’t run out of beer, which cost $4, $2 more than the water. Esteban and I forgot to eat anything all day. Our main goal was to infect the Renaissance Faire with an obnoxious “catch phrase”. Whenever they’d say “Huzzah!”, we’d say “Huzzzaaaaaaaaaaah” like the “Whasssssup?” guys. It’s very very sad but we found it funny.
Oh, and at one point, one of the Faire employees was trying to get people to visit the Tarot booth and he approached me. “Mi Lady, you must visit the Tarot booth or I shall flog you most righteously.”
I looked at him and raised one eyebrow and said “Promise?” in my best Marilyn Monroe/BDSM voice. He was completely silenced. And maybe a little scared.
Around 3 o’clock (3 hours before the end), Esteban and I were beat. We agreed to meet up with the rest of our party at the cars, where we had coolers full of tepid water. Esteban and I were Renaissanced out, so we sat in the car with the air-conditioner running
Oh, yeah, and during the day, he got stabbed by someone’s sword. Some guy was walking around with his sword unprotected and backed into Joel’s leg. You have to hand it to Joel, though, as he reacted perfectly. He said something like “Good sir! You have wounded me most grievously!” and the dressed-up Renaissancy guy went “Wha–?” And Joel pointed to his bleeding leg and they guy says instead, “Oh, yeah, I couldn’t find my scabbard.” So fucking tape the end of your sword like the rest of the people there. It’s a weapon, asshole. That could have been a little kid.
Then we started home and stopped at a fish restaurant for some fish or something. The restaurant was split up into three different “restaurants”: the pub, the Landing (whatever that was) and the “Main Dining Room”. Each had different menus with different prices. I lobbied for the pub, but Joel wanted “a good meal” so we went the expensive route.
The special of that restaurant was Fish on a Plank. They take an oak plank and cook the fish directly on that. It gives it a flavor I guess. I think you have to be a fish lover to understand what that flavor was because I have no clue. Tasted like fish to me. Good fish, but still fish.
Then we saw their desserts. They had this wonderful lemon merangue pie. So high. So glorious. The lemon curd tumbled out onto the plate like only fresh lemon curd will do. The merangue was this wonderful light yet sweet foamy wonderland inside your mouth. The crust! Oh, the crust! So tender and flaky, very similiar to a croissant.
I think Martha Stewart was cooking that night. Fish on a plank. I could see her doing a show on that, with her weird, pause-speak thing that she does.
“Here we have a ….luscious…. whitefish cooked and SERVED on…this…BEAUUUUUTIFUL charred….hardwood oak plank.”
It was a good thing. It was a good thing that Esteban didn’t see the bill, as it came to $90 with the tip. For the two of us.
Then we were waiting in the pub for Joel to push a turtle head out, and I notice the Pub menu sitting there. Planked fish: $10.95 rather than the $20 in the next room.
Christ.
So the lesson here: if you ever eat at a restaurant where they have several “restaurants” with different menus, take the cheapest. It’s the same fucking food. Exactly the same.
In preparation of the Ren Fair, I had used some “self-tanner” so that my legs didn’t look like pale winter ass skin. Apparently, I did not apply it evenly, because my skin came out looking like I had been playing in the mud. I just told people I had leprosy. It makes for easy crowd-navigation when people think you’ve got a communicable disease.
Leprosy: It’s a good thing.
Have you Seen These?
2001-07-01 Huzzah! Lady Weetabix approaches on her trusted steed, Vomitorium!
2001-06-29 Journey to the center of Mulletdom
2001-06-28 Is you is or is you ain’t my Savior?
2001-06-27 Mattel introduces Slutty ‘Ho Barbie!
2001-06-26 More Fart humor at Casa Weetabix
2001-06-26 Poet-Collab: Tea Poem
2001-06-25 – SUBLIMINAL {new} MESSAGES {bra} REVEALED {needed}!!!
