The parking gods were gracious and produced a better spot than the one I had last week, although that is apparently short-lived. The Powers that Be are unhappy about the amount of parking lot the participants take up and how that really needs to be going to patrons. So they're going to be putting us all in the pit on the other side of the campground, with shuttles running until ten in the morning, a few more around noon, and then some after final cannon. They realize that some people have medical, etc. needs to not be parked there, and so 22 people will get passes.

Um. only 22 people get to have problems? How's that work? I understand that a lot of people will make crap up just to not have to park down there (can't blame them) - but it seems to me that if there are, for example, 54 legitimate issues (medical or otherwise), that somebody should go over to the Xerox machine and run off a few more passes. What if 25 people with those handicap parking passes show up and want one? Three of those people get to just not be handicapped anymore? I can understand wanting more parking for the patrons, but perhaps the Fest's owner should've thought of that before he agreed that the people from whom he's leasing the land could blow bits of the lot up.

I have a feeling that this will be as big of a cluster as the last time they declared pit parking. You'll notice it went back to the regular spot.

That was the only real blip on the Fest radar, though - for which I am grateful, as I'd had a crappy and stressful week. It was wonderful to feel it all melt off as I rumbled down the gravel road.

And these are among my many blessings:

Friends to hug and share my excitement - especially BJ and Toni and Taffy and Angus and Angelina and Rachel and Ingrid and Jeff.

Vilification to make me laugh.

Stories from Dana Baird to fill my head with wonder - really, really, go to her reading at Irish Cottage. The bit about the Intrepid Ellie is not to be missed.

Standing on the hill behind Mac's with a  couple friends, giddy with joy and possibility and waving to the parade as it passed.

People to listen to my stories - and who like them enough to want to take books home with them. And then come back wanting the next one.

The late afternoon comfort of Irish Cottage, listening to music I haven't heard in years and had forgotten how much I loved. It was strange and wonderful and sad all at once to hear a young man in a broadcloth peasant's outfit sing "The Keeper" in the place that still echoed with the multi-part ghost-harmonies of my Cottage sisters. (Not that "The Keeper" was ever a particular favorite, but it is one I've never heard elsewhere.) I miss mornings of brushing my hair into braids as I watched the wind rustle through Tinker's tree and listened to Mother Superior telling another terribly off-color nun joke - or even just re-tell the one about the leprechaun asking if there were "any wee little nuns about me size". I long to climb up in the rafters and sprawl there to let the music waft up at me from below, to hear Kindred and Gallowglass and Lorelei again and smell Auntie Brie's signature Misty Dream cooking on the fire. Instead I sit in the seanchai chair and think how strange it is that I've actually earned the right to park my butt in that esteemed seat - and to have others offer it to me when I walk in the door.

The kind lady at the exit gate who found my wayward hat-plume and shoved it in a hanging basket of flowers so it wouldn't escape until I returned to fetch it.

Discovering that the candle holders at Cottage aren't vanished - they're just not on display due to a desire to have a more period (and thereby, less candle-festooned) look. That I can understand and highly respect. Just knowing they're still in the house makes me feel better.

Stunningly perfect weather on both days: sun slanty and warm across Festival's grounds on Sunday, making me want to curl up like a cat in a patch of it somewhere and take a nap; wind brisk and a little chill on Saturday - just enough to make me consider the wisdom of a cloak.

The chuckle of a patron at a joke I've just told - even when it's not a particularly good one.

The triumphant grin of the girl-knight on the sliding joust as she got the ring on her lance.

Hearing a band that's been out there as long as the trees sing "Follow Me Up To Carlow" as I was passing the Mead Booth

 The knowledge that there are places in the world where a sunset or a song will always remind me that there is beauty in the world and that everything turns out okay in the end, no matter the pain in getting there.

It started off so innocently: it was 1:45. I woke hungry. There are hard-boiled eggs in the fridge.

And then I thought, wistfully, of how they always taste better when they're fresh out of the pot.

So I put them in the microwave.

I have a friend whose mom blew the door off the microwave by trying to cook an egg, but somehow I thought it was the shell that did the deed.

It wasn't.

My microwave was in tact when the process completed, although thank the gods I decided to go for a spoon instead of just biting in. I immediately discovered:

- A hard-boiled egg recently subjected to a microwave will go off like a firecracker when pierced by a spoon

- A hard-boiled egg recently subjected to a microwave is very, very hot

- I really should've put my glasses on before attempting this experiment.

I stumbled to the bathroom, blinded, and started flushing my eyes with water. When the pain subsided enough for me to open them, I was relieved to find they were just red and I had not suffered any major damage. I did learn something else:

Few things will give me the giggles at 2 AM quite like the sight of myself covered in exploded hard-boiled egg. Face, hair, pajammas (thank goodness we had the windows open, so I wasn't sleeping in the nude) - everything.

And then, staggering back to the kitchen, I learned something further:

One of those few things that will give me the giggles at 2 AM more than the sight of myself covered in exploded hard-boiled egg is the sight of the KITCHEN covered in exploded hard-boiled egg.

Ho.Ly. Crap. I kid you not, it looked like a bomb went off in there. Eggs have a deceptively high volume for their size, especially when it's reduced to bits the size of Nerds candy.

I think there could be military applications for this; I really do.

Weapons of Mass Stupidity, anyone?

... by the fabulously awesome K. V. Taylor - and so, a meme.

Share seven facts about yourself in the post. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.

1. I am going cold-turkey on caffeine tomorrow because I'm tired of getting blinding headaches when I sleep in on the weekend. This is not the most interesting thing about me, but at the moment it is the most looming. We shall see if I avoid incarceration while dealing with withdrawal + coworkers. I hear it takes 2-5 days to really kick it.

2. My cell phone doesn't have a color screen, is kept in the car, and only used to call out in case of emergencies. It costs $5/month. I have no desire to upgrade.

3. Today I fixed the last problem scene in Towards the Fates. I only have the paper edits left. They should be finished by Imbolc. (That makes this a topical meme, yes?)

4. I love lava lamps. We have six. The first came from my partner's dorky company party about seven years ago. I have to turn them all off when Mom comes over, though, because they make her motion sick.

5. I still miss the Halsa Walnut Leaves shampoo and conditioner. Alas that everything now smells like a fruit, a flower, or a chemical.

6. I have far too many VHS workout tapes garnered from garage sales - most of which I ignore entirely.

7. My two favorite books as a child were Leo the Lop and The Kitten Who Barked, and I am blessed to have parents not only read them to me, but who really do believe that Normal Is What You Are.

Seven Random Tags (from folks who have friended me on LJ - it's late and I'm too lazy to be different for each place I crosspost...):
Mattsiah
Mike von Maltzan
Elizabeth
BJ
Snookum
Windrider
Silverwind

... though I've no idea if any of them will respond.

Why do so many of us put on far too many clothes, subject ourselves to every evil (and beauty) the weather can throw at us, walk around in (usually crappy) footwear for ten hours straight... and give up two months of weekends to do it?

Joy. Family. Love.

At the beginning of this season, a long-time patron's daughter called the Fest office to say her father had cancer and missed being able to come out to Fest as he had for thirty years. Would a few of the cast be willing to bring Fest to him...?

I wasn't surprised by the number of people I saw on the street outside his house last night. We're performers. It's hard not to go where you know you'll be applauded.

But that makes it sound so simple, so selfish. There's something deeper in the statement... not just the desire for applause, but the desire to bring joy. To show a complete stranger and his family - who must be asking some pretty big "why us?" questions to the Higher Power of their choice - that there is good in the world. That there is love. To bring a little beauty to people living with too much pain.

He didn't know we were coming. There were tents in the yard and part of the street blocked off, but he'd been told his wife and daughter were holding an Avon sales party. He was less than enthusiastic about that -- and utterly stunned to be brought outside to catch some air and find over two dozen random costumed freaks on his lawn, singing to him.

We did a bit of a variety show for him - music and dance and song and story (and, of course, Twig), and I know I'll never again hear "The Rigs" without picturing the Dregs against that otherwise mundane residential street, with trees rustling in the wind and Suze's voice soaring into the cloudy twilight of the sky. For a little while, that small section of St. Paul belonged to dreams, to love and joy.

He tired and went inside. We were told to carry on, even though he was a bit overwhelmed and needed to rest - that he could hear from inside, and it was bringing him joy.

And so the music jam continued, and the drums, and the fire-dancer in the street.

One of his family told me that this was like Christmas to him... which was so special, because they didn't think he'd make to to the actual Christmas.

I think, perhaps, we were the ones most greatly gifted.

Joy. Family. Love.

I got eaten alive by mosquitoes - but whenever I scratched knee or foot or leg or arm today, I smiled.

I want to reincarnate as a cat and live at this place....



Cat House on the Kings website, for those interested