I am dressing crazy tomorrow. Why? Because if this isn’t a place to be a pony-firefighter-princess, I don’t know what is. Black dress, pony falls, juilet cap, corset. Done. It’s happening!
(Lol just make sure you won’t over heat)
Oh I won’t. It’s why I’m not wearing my capelet. Because . . .I actually said, “I’m worried I’ll be too hot in my capelet. It’s wool.” And then I couldn’t believe I said that seriously and then I decided fuck it. I’m doing my outlined plan. I’m wearing my fox tail too. Because it’s the one A. Approved-ish venue for a tail.
(You get down with your bad self!)
– Email exchange from 8/8/14
It started when we were eighteen. We all had something in common – we loved to step out of reality for a day and go to the Renaissance Faire. Our hearts would always belong to the old New Jersey Renaissance Faire where some of our friends and boyfriends volunteered. We would never step that far in, preferring to stay on the fringes. Allowed to stay after hours, knowing who was made at who for fucking who this week and who drank too much at the parties that we never attended. The old grounds were beautiful – in an actual forest where we would hide out and smoke cloves and talk about what was currently oppressing us (summer reading, The Man/Our Parents, shitty summer jobs, shitty boy/girlfriend behavior, That Girl/Guy We All Hate, etc.). We would spend many happy days there. Fencing, dressing up, eating whatever wasn’t nailed down, flirting, learning a tiny smidgen about magic and (separately) kink.
It was always a bigger deal going to the NY Renaissance Faire, we needed more cars, more money and more time for it. We started going as a mixed group but inevitably the boys would be terrible, never letting us shop at a non-sword store for more than ten minutes, rushing the eating process, leaving shows after ten minutes and wrecking what little game we had to try to flirt with cute vaguely age appropriate kilted boys. After a couple years of this, we had enough. We would have to make two trips: a Girls’ Day where we could do it to it without getting totes aggravated and a mixed day. The mixed day died out, much to the chagrin of boys who joined our circle in the last couple years (including Jow), the boys would never commit and corralling them was too much aggro.
But we remained firm. You want to talk the most sacred of women’s space in my only vaguely magical circle of bitches? Girls’ Day. All day, every day. Boys would try to plead and cajole to join us and we would firmly deny them every time. Of course they could go on their own, take their own car. We would even deign to have a drink with them! But they never go, which is fine by us. Some years we invite every woman we know, sometimes we keep it teeny tiny, depending on mood.
There’s the sacred car ride past scenic leafy forests and convents, the rite of as much food as possible (turkey legs with barbeque sauce and crispy skins, a mountain of golden chips, warm apple cider donuts smothered in dark chocolate and fluffy marshmallows), the traditional gawking at lovely costumes, pawing at every shop we pass and giggling in stone circles. Allegedly, Baby may have done a bad, bad thing and bought a new outfit for warmer weather that can “pass” for non-historical events from Moresca. Supposedly, hats were purchased by the triumvirate to all wear for a wedding. A much needed retreat!