I am currently embroiled in helping Cheryl with The Greatest Little Faire That Isn't.
It's a bizzare situation. It's a first-year faire with a nice website, decent advertising, expensive buildings, quality merchants, etc. It seems like everything should be set for a successfull run. Except for the little detail of patrons. For three weekends now, there have been very very few paying customers. Of course "paying" is really a misnomer. This is being held in the middle of the mountains where the small population is about as broke as we are at this point, have never heard of a Renn Faire, and would probably rather use their expendable income toward Nascar-related causes, anyway. A finite number of dollars walk through our gate, and it is kind of a crap-shoot as to which five out of thirty novelty/food/wench gear vendors get those dollars. And this past weekend, it rained the whole time.
Who has fled back to knitting out of sheer, soul-killing boredom after a long post-kilt-sock hiatus? This guy.
Oh well. At least this past weekend I had some fun on Saturday night with other merchants, giggling manaically over our shared plight at the nearby campground. There is a commeraderie there, as we are munching on burgers and leftovers brought down by the nicer food people and chatting till all hours untill finally crawling in to our tents/pop-ups/vans down by the river.
Best line of the night- Brent, the 6'8" 300 lb leather-armor guy: "The question is, if I were gay, could you stop me?" Dan, his jewelry-making buddy: "And the answer is no, but I could chew off my own ass in order to get away."
I was really surprised the other day when I drove by the Pizza Hell where I worked last year, and saw that all the windows were boarded up and the place was completely abandoned. Ok, I wasn't that surprised, considering the overpriced pizza they sold and the managers who stole and the string of employees they screwed over and the corresponding high rate of turnover/low rate of customer satisfaction. In fact, I wouldn't be that surprised if I found out that someone had torched the place.
Did I ever tell you about how the administrative office where I worked immediately preceeding Pizza Hell (you know, the one that rhymes with H and R Cock) was disolved a few months after I stopped working there? Well it was. Disolved in the kind of way where the higher-ups decided to just start over and everyone lost their jobs.
That makes two disfunctional places in a row that have fallen apart shortly after I left. Now, I'm not going to say that one thing is directly related to the other, my leaving and the place crumbling in my wake, I mean. And I'm not going to say that future employers should know to keep me happy and beware of the destruction my displeasure will ultimately bring raining down upon their places of business.
I'm not going to say that all should love me and despair.
As discussed at some point with Steph, I will occasionally backslide a few phases into denial. Before things become visually apparant, the whole thing is surreal, and it's easy to wonder if it is happening at all. Like perhaps I made up this little story out of boredom. Perhaps it's really just a big joke on everyone. Mostly me.
There should be a phase called "delusional."
I had a doctor's appointment today. The nurse practitioner, after some routine pokes and prods, decided that we should listen to the heartbeat. She did this without much warning. One minute I am sitting there with no pants, blissfully watching this little cart-and-pony show, which is all very amusing but unnecissary because I probably conjured it up in my head. Then the next minute, there is this heartbeat echoing out of my body that is not mine, proving once and for all (before witnesses) that yes, Aquaman exists, and somehow, Aquaman is in my undercarriage.
The office also made me speak with their resident counselor. Among other things, this lady stressed two items. One was that breast feeding is important. Ok, fine. Check. I'm already on board with that. The second thing was that I should get married. For the security, for the insurance, and mostly so my man doesn't run out on me. I let her know that I'm very secure, thanks; my man doesn't have any more insurance than me; and that I am more likely to run out on myself if anyone runs out at all, but I appreciate the concern. I should have told her that my partner, Candace, and I have a very loving, stable relationship and will definitely get married as soon as we can get ourselves on one of those Rosie O'Donnell cruises.
There should also be a phase called "Fleeing From Well-Wishers and Advice-Givers to Live With Bohemian Hedonists in Thailand."
Denial "oh, by the end of March, first week of April, at the latest. No worries." "When was your last one?" "February 1st or 2nd. Why?"
Anger "You're waiting for the other shoe to drop?!?! I've got a shoe for you right here! And I'm about to drop it in your ass!!"
Bargaining "If I'm asleep all the time, it will probably change it's mind and go away, right? Ok, how bout this. You can be ecstatic, as long as I get to take more naps. And eat more Dibs."
Despair "My life is over, and I'm a bad person." "No, it isn't and no you're not. You just feel like this because you are wallowing in the depths of despair for the time being." ..... "I'm not really in the depths of despair." "I know. You're just splashing around in the shallow end. Bobbing for apples of despair."
Acceptance "I switched my Netflix mailing address to your PO Box." "Wow. That's like, a big sign of commitment." "Yeah. Cause letting your frogspawn gnaw on my liver for nine months is nothing. It's really all about the Netflix."
I am a Mommy, a reader, a writer, an artist, and a teacher indefinitely between jobs. I enjoy knowing everything and living with my baby-daddy (now NO LONGER in sin, totally legit), and feeding/clothing/grooming my six year-old, two year-old, four cats, a dog, and a teenager.