One of the greatest challenges in transitioning to this new "adult" phase in my life has been figuring out ways to stay "fun". This is especially true of my blogs. While at work I'm full of witty comments and hilarious stories by 6pm when I get home all I feel like doing is throwing myself facedown on the couch. Seriously, staring at a computer screen all day is poor for one's mental health and given that mine is already tottering on the brink--the effect upon my own psyche borders on catatonic.
I actually visualize the weekend's as recharging my "entertainment quota". I picture a little green bar dangerously close to red which can only be brought up to sunny bright green by copious amounts of drinking/debauchery (The Sim's anyone?). Last weekend, I had ample opportunity to recharge my glee, because I went with my friend Sam, (who is quickly becoming my partner in crime) to the Celtic Festival in Dayton.
Basically, festivals, fairs, and amusement parks are universally acknowledged as a safe haven for society's weirdest degenerates. No matter whether it's the Ohio State Fair or Disney Land, it's as if social amnesty is given out to morbidly obese women in tube tops and guys who dress like gnomes. For me, this means unprecedented levels of unabashed people-watching. And thankfully, the Celtic Festival did not disappoint.
There had been a lot of discussion about the Celtic Festival even before it hit Dayton, mainly because my boss was on some committee planing it and her daughters perform in it yearly, as Celtic dancers. The best discussions, however, centered upon Claire's take on the Festival--that it's a pure bastardization of Irish culture. We pointed out that we supposed it would be embarrassing if we had an "American Festival" featuring men in Stetson hats, hot dogs, American flags, and country music. Claire pointed out that there is such an occasion, it's called the Fourth of July. Really, American, you wonder why the rest of the world hates you? The bastardized version of our culture is in fact, actually just our culture. Nevertheless, I was dying to see a family friendly version of St. Patrick's Day with people in kilts, shamrock painted faces, and other such nonsense. What I actually saw was about a thousand times better.
Firstly, while there were some noble attempts made at "Irish" (aka pub) food--at some point they gave up and vendors instead offered Chinese food, bbq, or funnel cake. Nothing says the land of Eire like...Louisiana crawfish. Fail. Also the tchotchkes offered were glorious; mini "family crest" keychains with names like "Kennedy" and "McDonald" on them, mini Irish flags, shamrock dog collars, and even some men's cologne called "Patrick" which I sprayed on Sam. It smelled like patchouli and B.O. Without a doubt, however, the best offering was the entertainment. A band called "Enter the Haggis" from Canada, of all places, was introduced by a local TV newscaster, which tells you just how "impressive" the whole event was. Then, I shit you not, a gigantic woman, maybe 6 ft tall with a severe bun and jolly khakis, signed the lyrics of all the bands songs. I felt pretty certain at a few particularly dramatic parts that some random woman just hopped up on stage because some of these gesticulations did NOT look like sign language. Actually gyrations is the more appropriate term.
And la piece de la resistance, Sam and I got matching airbrush tattoos. We scanned for the trashiest one we could find and settled on a six inch ninja sword with "NINJA" written in capital letters. Being the more ladylike of the two of us, I opted for my inner thigh, because I didn't want the tattoo to show at work (except maybe to peek demurely out of my skirt). The man assured me it would last 3-5 days, depending on the level of "friction" between my thighs. I'm not sure if he was calling me fat or being suggestive, but either way he referred to himself as "Daddy" at one point so I'm not into it.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is what I do on the weekends to keep my fun cells from atrophy.