Yesterday, I brought my mom and my little brother Jonathon to the Renaissance Fair. It was sort of spur of the moment’ a very cool day (64-70 degrees) and a day when we didn’t already have some major thing planned. The stars were in alignment, so to speak.
I should preface this here by saying that Jonathon likes to talk. Jonathon likes to talk a LOT. Jonathon should be a sports commentator when he grows up or maybe just some sort of commentator in general, or at very least, marry a spouse who enjoys LISTENING, because the mouth is always flapping on that kid. Most of the time, he’s so busy describing what’s going on in front of him or asking questions about benign details that he’s missing the larger picture. It’s ok and I think he’s got a bit of the storyteller bug in him but it does get a bit annoying. I’m fairly certain that he’ll grow out of it. If not, I’ll turn him onto Diaryland where he can write pages upon pages of observations.
We had a grand time. Moonie the Magnificent took off his top and I got to view his nice athletic arms. That was the highlight of my day. He’s a hottie. I’m normally there with Esteban, so I would feel awkward lusting after the men in tights, but with just my mom and my brother, I could run free with lascivious thoughts about codpieces. My mother enjoyed herself immensely. I ended up bribing Jonathon with $20 if he would stop begging for us to purchase various things for him. He ended up blowing it all throwing various sharp objects at various items in the games area (lessee, five pointed stars, darts, cross bows, and daggers from what I remember).
I was sitting, at one point, watching Moonie and then I had a strange thought. This is his job. His job is spitting golf balls out of his mouth, touching his burning tongue to the burning tongue of another flame juggler, and doing funny little faces whilst wearing tights. That’s his job. And it’s the job of some lady to be Queen Elizabeth every weekend and wear a big purple dress and a bum roll and ride a horse at the 1:00 pm parade.
I want a job like that.
Where do I apply to be the Queen? Let me know, ok?
I was speaking with my sister about this diary (while I was trying to convince her to go to the RenFair with the rest of us, but she had taco dip to make or some such nonsense’ I couldn’t hear her over the sounds of “water” running). Anyway, she’s wanting a pseudonym because ‘Everyone has one but (her)’. Which is bullshit. No one has a pseudonym, other than myself and Esteban. Oh, and sometimes I refer to Esteban Sr. as Ward because his mom’s name is June (and that’s really her name, kids) and sometimes I call him Esteban Sr, because he really is a Sr while Esteban is actually Esteban Jr. Not even the cats have pseudonyms.
And truthfully, I don’t do pseudonyms very much because I can’t remember to use them. In fact, one sharp-eyed reader wondered if I had two husbands, since I sometimes referred to Esteban as his real name and sometimes as ‘Esteban’.
Frankly, I’m game about giving my sister a pseudonym, but I’m clueless about what I’m going to call her and I also don’t feel like going through all of my old entries and exchanging her name for her pseudonym. I’m thinking of calling her ‘Mo’, since one of the first things I wrote about her here was that she ‘tailgates like a mofo’. What do you think? Any other suggestions?
Oh, and another thought: for those of you who know me in real life, who read this here diary and see things that you don’t like, just remember this: you’re reading MY diary. For whatever reason, possibly you are feeling voyeuristic or what to see what I really think of you or whatever, you need to realize that I’m writing my thoughts at the time and I try to only write things that I would say to your face anyway. I understand that sometimes it seems harsher than hearing it from my mouth, but you need to remember that you are here of your own free will. If you don’t like what you see, then don’t keep reading. It’s like peeking in the windows of the Widow Baker up the street: sometimes you’re gonna see some ugly shit.
God. I shouldn’t even have had to write that.
This is really starting to piss me off. I’m thinking about not keeping an online journal anymore.
I don’t want to stop, but I don’t want to censor myself because of whoever is reading. I also feel as though I have to censor myself because I’ve already perturbed a few individuals. And as my sister pointed out, I would be shunned from the family if anyone found out (other than my sister) that I refer to my Grandma as Mafia Grandma. (Ok, I wouldn’t say THAT to her face) But then, she’s touchy and she’ll put a horse’s head in your bed for looking at her cross-eyed. One year, she actually got pissed off at me because I had the NERVE to have an asthma attack in her home with it’s blue smoke-filled air and 11 Persian cats.
Anywho, hopefully I’ll get over my pissy attitude and figure out some way to either not let it bother me or somehow censor myself without pissing myself off, because I actually really enjoy writing in here and I love all of the cool people I’ve ‘met’ through this here thang.
Have you read these?
Prithee, fine squire, shut the hell up?
Sort of like “A Star is Born”, but with Dirk Diggler
Now with 45% more RIBOFLAVIN!!!
Convenient Feminism: the religion of the Gen X woman
Singing about Girl on Girl action!
So… you’re saying that watching a lot of Star Trek is bad?
