Tea Party 
Every year about this time I look forward to visiting our local Renaissance Faire.
I got hooked on it about five years ago because the people working there are
unique, strange, and kinda sexy in a medieval type way. Very rock and roll.
Or maybe its a gothic punk thing. I’m not sure.
The guys look like the front of a romance novel with long black hair and tight britches.
The women? Well it’s the only place I know other than a strip club where
it’s acceptable to stare at a woman’s breasts. And it’s considered real sexy for a woman
to have a soft rounded belly and hips to go along with the uplifted bosom.
O so wenchy.
A couple years ago a henna artist wearing low flung harem pants mesmerized me
because she had this thick black hair that started right below her belly button
and traveled down into the top of her pants. I really had a hard time not looking.
I cursed my blondeness for weeks after that knowing I could never…
Plus the fried pickles are killer.
Every year you get your basic Lotta Smooches, Zucchini Brothers,
Jousting Knights, Washing Wenches, and of course, the Amazing Tuey.
(I’ve never seen the Amazing Tuey but the name brings back fond memories.)
However that’s not really why I go. Now…I go to learn.
This year I learned how to make marijuana tea from a 60 year old Jewish woman
with bright red hair, dressed in a bodice and corset. “Don’t smoke it!”, she said.
Then she patted my face softly and told me I looked just like that country singer,
ummmmm, Shania Twain and that I had a whole lot of fucking time left in my life.
As in the act not lifespan. Kinky little cawfeetalk woman.
She made me smile.
I thought it was the least I could do for receiving all that wisdom.
I hope to grow up to be just like her.
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Hello, sinners, bad and wicked people. Hello tortured souls…
