Dragon Princess

Dresses Through the Mud

Last year on the morning of the Renaissance Festival I paced the floors, looked at my watch, and said things like, “These tickets costed a bunch of money. How much longer are you going to be?!” I knew better than to ask my wife that not-really-a-question question, but damnit, turkey legs aren’t going to eat themselves. Once we were on our way I felt like a big dummy for waiting on her since we had to drive separately. We couldn’t fit our whole family into one vehicle, but I let her convince me she needed “help” getting “our” children out the “door,” so I couldn’t leave until she did.

But I’m much more smarter now.

When I bought our tickets to this year’s RenFest I said, “Check it out,” and showed Jacque the email on my phone. “Is that,” she tapped on my screen, “from the town? Have you not paid the water bill yet? They’ll cut us off if we’re even a day--” I took my phone back, went to the correct e-mail, and said, “Of course I paid it already. I was showing you the RenFest tickets.”

“Oh, okay,” she said in that tone of voice. Sure, I forgot to pay that one bill that one month, but I’ve remembered them all for at least five months this year. When she walked around the corner I looked at the water bill e-mail. I’ve remembered them all for at least four months this year.

A couple weeks ago, I told Jacque, “I’m going to drive separately to the RenFest this year.” I anticipated her “why,” because I’ve been married a long time. “Because tickets aren’t cheap. If we’re there from open to close, it works out to thirty-one dollars per hour. I want to get my money’s worth.”

“Scoff,” she said, “Are you only worried about the money? I like it because we have fun as a family.” I nodded and said, under my breath, “Expensive fun.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I said as I grabbed a beer. “Wait, did you say the word ‘scoff?” She sighed and said, “Fine, we can drive separately.” I scanned the room for witnesses as I said, “Cool. So, to be clear, you’re okay with driving separately? And I can leave early? Anybody else hear that?” I got a nod from my seven-year-old. It’d have to do.

The night before the RenFest, I sent my oldest daughter and her friend their two tickets. Five left. I took a poll from my desk as bottomless pits devoured the burgers and dogs I pulled off the grill ten minutes prior. That’s the only time I ever see all three of my current tax write-offs in the same spot. “Who’s riding with me tomorrow and who is riding with mom?” Blank faces and chewing noises. “Okay, I’m leaving at eight tomorrow morning, and mom is leaving at…umm…a different time. Who wants to ride with me?” I got two volunteers and sent the remaining two tickets to my beloved.

On the morning of our commute to nerd heaven, I was pleasantly surprised to find my seventeen-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter waiting for me when I got downstairs. I sloshed some coffee into my favorite cup, made sure my passengers had what they needed, then we walked out the door. Almost. “Can I wear my princess dress?” I sighed and said, “Come on, Elias. Again?” I’m kidding. Viv asked about the dress. BUT, if Elias had wanted to wear a princess dress, I would have told him to go for it. One of my favorite things about the RenFest is that people dress up and let their freak flags fly. High and proud. They fly it without worry that anyone is going to look down on them or say “scoff.” They also embrace the term “freak” and wear it proudly. Let the normals keep their world of beige mediocrity.

“You don’t want to get your princess dress all dirty before Halloween, do you?”

“But I want to wear it.”

“Let’s wait until Halloween. It’s still pretty warm and you might get too hot.”

She “forgot something upstairs,” then reappeared with a shopping bag. “Mommy said I could bring it.”

I sighed and pointed toward the door.

We barreled north toward overpriced wooden swords, pizza that has been sneezed on at least twice, and dusty performers who have long ago gone to their happy places mentally. I listened to Dream Theater. The kids slept. I wondered if I should start playing Dungeons and Dragons. Surely it’s a game that can be played and wrapped up pretty quickly, right? I’ll look into it.

Before we were in our parking space, Vivian was out of her seat and trying to pull her princess dress out of its box.

“I need your knife,” she said.

“I’m not handing my knife to a seven-year-old in the backseat of my truck.”

“Let’s get out, then.”

I handed her my knife, and she made short work of yanking her pink bunch of fabric out of a cardboard box. I put my knife in the console of my truck because I couldn’t remember if RenFest security checks for pocketknives. They don’t. You can take a sword in. You have to secure it to its sheath with a zip-tie, but that doesn’t seem like a huge barrier when you’re among a crowd of people carrying swords. And daggers. And a bunch of seven-year-olds carrying pocketknives.

Vivian slid her dress over the long-sleeve shirt and pants I told her not to wear. “You’re going to overheat,” I told her. “No I won’t,” she said as she wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the same hand she sneezed in a few minutes ago. In her defense, she sneezed in her palm and wiped her head with the back of her hand. “Seven-Year-Old Sanitary,” I call it. I sprayed her hands with the bottle of alcohol I keep with the tools in my truck.

“That’s not like the stuff mom uses,” she said as she rubbed her grungy little paws together. “No,” I said as I sprayed my own hands, “My stuff is really good. It has cut detector in it, too.”

“It stings where the kitten scratched me last night.”

“See? It works.”

“I don’t like your hand sanitizer.”

Such a princess.

We sauntered in line and listened to people talk about how much they spent on their costumes and how many hours it took to put them together. Vivian asked how much her costume costed. I told her it was really pretty. “But how much was it?” I asked her if she liked it. She did. “So it doesn’t matter how much it costed,” I said. She was satisfied, right up until Elias said, “Didn’t I see twenty bucks on the price tag?” I looked at him. She looked at me. He looked at something shiny. “Oh, that’s a lot of money,” Vivian said. I sighed with relief. “I’ll take care of it, then,” she said, as she lifted the lace at the bottom up from dragging on the gravel walkway.

I looked over the map and show schedule when we got through the gate. Well, I tried to.

“I’m hungry.

“Me, too.”

“I want a turkey leg.”

“I want pizza.”

“Can we have Pepsi?”

I stuffed the folded map into my pocket and let my two starving children lead the way. After I handed over what felt like enough money to buy a set of tires, we sat at a table in the cool morning shade, and my malnourished offspring ate about three bites before they were “full” and wanted to go do stuff. “This is all you’re getting for a while, so you better make sure your belly is full.” They assured me they were. I ate the rest of the pizza slice and gnawed on the giant drumstick over the next hour as I said no a couple hundred times in each shop we walked through. We watched guys juggle blades and fiery things. I finally threw the spent turkey bone in the trash around the time Amara, my oldest, and Anndria, her friend, showed up.

Amara said, “Mom will be here in about a half hour.” I looked at my watch. “Only three hours after us. Not bad.” She laughed because it was true. When our entire tribe was in one place, Vivian told Jacque, “Elias got hippotized.” Jacque cocked her head like a puppy seeing a toilet flush for the first time. I said, “Hypnotized.” Still the sideways head. “We went to a hypnosis show, and he volunteered to get on stage and be hypnotized.” The cocked head looked at Elias. He said, “It was freaky! Like I wasn’t even in my body!” The cocked head straightened and stared at me. I put my hands up and said, “The boy is seventeen years old and wanted to do it. I wasn’t going to stop him.” Jacque moved on. “I got video.” She shook her head as she walked away.

By this time, princess Vivian had shed her royal dress and was dragging it in the dirt and the turkey juice and spilled mead. I gave up telling her to pick it up an hour ago and told her that, no, I wouldn’t carry it for her. She wanted to bring it, so she was responsible for it. Jacque pointed out the dress that looked like it had been used to clean the inside of a dumpster, and I said, “Mommy said I could bring it.” She rolled her eyes and told Vivian to pick it up. A few minutes later, Jacque was carrying the dress. It’s funny that fathers can tell the future about so many things, yet we never seem to predict how mad our spouses will be when we say, “told you so.” Nor do we learn from it.

Over the next few hours, I said “no” a couple hundred times in each shop we visited, yet somehow the kids walked out with stuff. I assume they were shoplifting. We watched guys juggle blades and fiery things. I finished off the turkey leg my fourteen-year-old couldn’t finish and tossed the spent bone in the trash on our way out. Once outside the gates we fractured back into three factions, but for the trip home, Vivian rode with Jacque. The dress rode in the trunk.

At home that night as the kids ate the steak I pulled off the grill ten minutes prior – do I have a grilling addiction? – I asked my little sunburned, over-sugared, dirt crusted offspring if they had a good time. Chewing noises and head nods all around. “Cool,” I said, “Should we go early again next year?” Chewing noises and nodding. Vivian, who Jacque told me was asleep before she got out of the parking lot, said, “Yeah, let’s go early again because we got to do everything twice!”

Huzzah.