Waltzing Godzilla

Normally when someone tells you that she is dirty, hungry, tired, has been wearing the same pants since 4 AM Friday (at 2 PM Saturday), has blisters on her fingers and aches in every identifiable body part and muscle group (including small bruises on most extermities), and smells like a satyr...wait, that doesn't happen normally, because most people don't tell that. But if this anonymous someone did, you'd probably think s/he wasn't thrilled about the whole deal.

You would be incorrect.

PUF rules. Supreme.

What did I do this weekend? I watched a bunch of little girls, which means that I sang, fingerpainted, colored, made coin purses, covered booboos, lifted little hands up to sink level to wash and little faces up to mirror level to admire their facepaint. resolved disputes...you know, child care.

I smoked cigarettes. I kissed UnkyDunky every time I saw him. I kissed Patrick almost every time I saw him, when I wasn't loudly promising to give him head. I smoked other things. I drummed. I danced. I sang. I beat on a table with spoons. I chased CDHSarah around the fire dance smacking her in the ass with the tambourine, and she laughed so hard she nearly fell in the mud. I have hit every part of my body I can reach in order to make noise this weekend.

I hunched around an oven with my hands out to the warm, talking about dreadlock-stereotyping with a Black witch in the Ephi tradition. People gave me free cigarettes. People brought me back Coke from the store in my own, easily portable, bottle.

I got hugged. I got kissed. I got feted. I found out one of my close acquaintances with whom I'd had only random contact got a job at The Network on third shift, and we spent a long time wrapped in blankets on the porch, trashing the program hosts to hell and back. I took classes in Germanic heathenism and Ephi and dissected the "Celtic shamanism" movement with a scholar of the Celts in a public discussion. I spent much of the night smoking shisha (not hashish, look again) and talking to her about everything and its mother, which went on until Oh-myGod-o'clock in the morning (which in turn is my new favorite phrase.) Patrick told me again (during head-massage) that I have healing hands, which is always nice to have reaffirmed.

I sat through a very hippie Wiccan ritual -- one of the ones that usually leave me cold, if not actively fidgeting -- without feeling disconnected -- I thought the Artist had added the touch of Heinlein in it, but turns out it was written in. I met BellydancerLady and BigMrChris and Bethums and Swain and HexCraftGuy....and ThomasWithTheFang, MikeTheEMTGuy, CCTheBroomLady, Zebrashadows the Nutbar, and PerryFromTheArmy. I got lost in Dickson, and found again. Plus, the aforementioned Wiccans taught me the song referenced in the title.

I got to be a peculiar type of warm I've never been before...waking up in a tent, misted because I was too close to the pegdown, and electing to get in the shower at 4 am, run it for twenty minutes, dress for the next day, mummify myself in hospital blankets, run ten yards or so back to the tent...then snuggle in next to the Artist under the down waterproof sleeping bag, because he had crawled his exothermic ass onto my air matress when he woke up and saw I wasn't in it. Mmmm.

I had a total Beowulf moment last night, when BitchGoddessTysh had determined it was too cold for any of us to tent, and told tenters who weren't being put up in cabins to sleep in the Hall, which meant we were sleeping in front of a fire, in a Great Hall....with the remains of a feast still visible on the table. After the quasi-blot on Friday, it was awesome. In the original, not the surfer, way. Of course, in Beowulf, your friends' guts are hanging from the rafters instead of stuffed chihuahuas, so I'll take PUF.

I got home, and it's Round Three for GetupGrrl

I did so much stuff, I really can't summarize. Tell you what...comment on what sounds most interesting and I'll tell y'all 'bout it. In the meantime, I need clean clothes and warm socks, and ET needs love.