Stingers and Rats

and boobs!

We went to the Mid-Summer Northwest Renaissance Faire over the weekend. My husband was not necessarily keen on going, but I promised him “Boobs and Beer as far as the eye can see”.

It doesn’t take much, amiright ladies?

He was slightly less suicidal at the thought of a day out in the hot sun walking on hot hay, spending gobs of money we shouldn’t be to sit on hot hay bales watching sweaty men pretend to be Knights dressed in tin cans if he could just see a great rack without guilt.

A couple weeks back, I bought some pre-order Renaissance Faire tickets from I have not been to a Ren Faire in about twenty years… give or take. When I was 12, my dad dragged me to my first one to meet my stepmother. The woman he already married. They got married while I was away at camp. Afterall, who can really plan a wedding around a kid’s summer schedule? (said dripping with sarcasm)

So this was my first foray into the world of boobs and ale.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I bought our tickets for the local fair, but I was looking forward to a day out with my own family. I was very excited to show my son the jousting and swordplay since he’s 8. He impresses fairly easily for such things. The day before the fair, my daughter comes down with a nasty head cold.

One down.

My husband is looking for any excuse NOT to go. He is not a crowd type of guy. He’s also not a bard or poet, so there’s not much offered to entice him. I did find a nearby pet adoption fair the morning of, and that seemed to perk him up. I’m not entirely sure why, really, since his schedule is so busy right now being out of town. We’ve not had the best luck with animals, so each time we attempt a “look see” it’s with great trepidation.

He talks me into splitting the day between the Ren Fair and the adoption fair. First we head to the pet fair. I was looking forward to speaking with the volunteers at the local Bulldog Rescue since i’ve wanted one forever. I’ve waited and researched and browsed and stalked various breeders and rescues. This was my chance to get hands on and really find out some stuff.

I found out that it’s really more dog than I can take on anytime soon. I will just continue to adore from afar… far from the vet office and pharmacy. I have always known about their health issues, but seeing a ragtag adorable, slobbery, overheated, panting group of them all together enlightened me even more. And when I spoke to the volunteer who fostered three alpha males and was gesturing with his dog-bitten-scarred hand, it became all the more clear. Not now. Not with small kids sucking my brain cells. Not with a messy tornado-stricken house and a perpetually tired self.

We perused the aisles of barking kenneled mutts. We landed back at the first tent we started from. After seeing the initial dog we liked had been adopted, and consoling my wailing son, another face caught my eye. It was a small wiry scruffy face that I couldn’t help but noticed matched my husbands wiry goatee. This dog was surrounded by barking, snappy, yapping dogs and made zero peeps.

We found out it was a girl and we walked her around as we asked questions. She warmed up a bit and licked my son who was until now refusing to even give this dog a shot. She is the so-ugly-shes-cute type, and everyone assumes she’s a boy because of her scruff.

My husband, the quintessential big dog man, fell first. He carried this dog all over the fair. Carried her. It didn’t help she was terrible on the leash presumably because at 8lbs, why not just carry her, but it was hysterical to see him with this dog.

We decided to adopt her. My husband happened to have brought a crate “just in case” and we took her with us to the Ren Faire. What better way to get a crash course in what she will tolerate than exhausting her to the brink of probably snapping?!

The Faire was decidedly unimpressive. Something about walking up to a place with a few, painfully few, accurately garbed individuals surrounded by half-assed kooks in Adidas and fairy wings just sucks the authenticity right out the dusty entrance gate.  Pair that with Ben & Jerry’s booths beside Gyro booths and it’s just laughable.

We managed to nab two hay bales in the shade to watch the jousting. We were seated right behind “The Queen” and her entourage who were also sitting on hay bales.  (?!?!?!)

SIDENOTE: back in the ‘old days’ when I went to the So Cal fair, The Queen had her own viewing section. She also had an entourage that numbered the teens.

The jousting was fun to watch, and my son really got into it. At one point the choreography was distracting and we just went along with it. The dude literally forgot he was supposed to fall from his horse and decided to topple about a minute and a half after he was struck.

After the final Huzzah, we got the heck out of there.

Sunday we stayed home and got my husband ready for his business trip. The afternoon was made thrilling by my poor son getting stung by a wasp. Turns out when you and your friends happen upon an underground nest, you will be stung.  😦  Having only been stung myself by a bee, and a dead one at that, I could only imagine the pain while he was hysterically wailing and screaming and thrashing around. I tend to suspect the sting wasn’t as bad as warranting a full on hysteria attack, but what do I know?! The allergy medicine I gave him “just in case” gave the whole thing a drowsy, delirious glow. Halfway through the chaos, my husband took his leave for the airport.  This must’ve been the payback for the lack of proper wenches and tits.


Pepper comforting my son, and she was near him the entire duration of his wasp recovery
Pepper comforting my son, and she was near him the entire duration of his wasp recovery

6 thoughts on “Stingers and Rats

  1. After I got past your Dad getting married whilst you were at camp…wtf…I lamented the lack of cleavage (on behalf of your husband, not personally being into cleaverage meself..) but rejoiced at the addition of the cute addition of Pepper. Noice.


    1. Yes, my dad was a piece of work, for sure. I didn’t even go into the bad cleavage that was up for viewing. It was just all kinds of “No thank you.”. Poor Mr. Sarcasmica! He drowned his sorrows in 3 servings of beer, though


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