So, Weetacon. This year’s theme was the Seven Deadly Sins, of which I managed to commit at least four during the course of the weekend. The ride over on Thursday was delightful—it was a big plane, and I had three seats all to myself. Ah, luxury. Jennette had connected in Detroit and was on the same flight. We’d talked at the gate before boarding, and I knew where she was sitting so I could have gone and invited her to join me in my row, but I took a peek and she seemed to have space next to her too, so I slid over into the window seat and enjoyed the solitude. While I was getting the keys to the rental car (a tedious process which involved the clerk telling me my license had expired when what he meant was the information on his screen said it had expired, which I thought was not something we needed to discuss as he had a) my physical license showing a 2012 expiration and b) the ability to change the date on his screen; we then went through the same thing with my credit card). By the time I had the keys, Andrea had arrived on her flight. I went to get the car, which took longer than it should because while the clerk told me he’d given me a Kia in stall number 11, the keys he’d handed me did not fit the Kia in stall number 11. They fit the Ford Escape a few stalls down. I was halfway back to the terminal to get this straightened out when I looked more closely at the paperwork, which said Ford Escape. Okay, fine. I took the Ford; I liked that better anyway. Before too long we arrived at the hotel and it was squee all around at the registration table, followed by lunch (and a Strongbow for me) in the hotel restaurant. I spent the afternoon running errands (the most important of which was buying acetone because I must have acetone but cannot fly with it) and adding a stamped design to my manicure. Then it was time for the big group dinner (I ordered lobster ravioli, which came with a crawfish on top, eyes on stalks and all) followed by a return to the hotel for hanging out and tasting chocolate and getting harangued at in the pub by a drunk religious lady. Some of the crew then went out to a dance club, but I opted to skip that and save my energy for the next day’s jam packed agenda. (How much energy I actually saved is debatable, as I stayed in the pub until well past my usual bedtime.)

[Nail look #1: pale gold stamped with green.]

I am exhausted just thinking about writing about Friday, so much went on. The day started with a bake sale featuring goodies from near and far and a trunk show by Gracie Designs. Then we had opening ceremonies before getting on the bus, which took us to Paul’s Pantry (the recipient of our fund raising efforts), lunch (giant, tasty pizzas), wine tasting (where I started to feel quite tired and pondered napping under the table), and the ranch for a hayride/bonfire and the traditional June and Ward buffet of awesomeness. But wait, there’s more. Back at the hotel, we had the charity raffle (as mentioned in my last entry, Jorie won the scarf I donated; the scarflet went to Fredlet, which seems fitting, and the hat went to Trish, which made me happy because I knew she really wanted it). I won many nice things, too, including a signed copy of Jennette’s new book Chocolate & Vicodin. Then it was time for the Igigi fashion show, arranged by Wendy Bix. (I’ll be writing a lot more about what I wore in a separate entry.) I am not a model, but I got a taste of it that night, wearing three different outfits in what felt like no time at all and changing clothes in a semi-public space. If we do that again, I’m going to need an assistant to help me with accessories—I brought a bunch but when it came time to choose I just grabbed the first things I could find that seemed like they might go with the dress I had on. To round out the night, there was a karaoke party; I did not sing but I danced a bit and gave good audience until I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

[Nail looks #2 and #3: purpley pink glitter bomb later modified by adding grey crackle (crack is quite popular in nail polish circles these days).]

The first event I managed to get to on Saturday was lunch at Joe Rouer’s. Unlike last year, when I was the straggler of the group, this year I (and my passenger Arianne, who I think was bit skeptical about being driven out into the middle of what must seem like nowhere if you didn’t grow up in that kind of place) got there well ahead of the crowd, many of whom got misdirected due to a signage change at a key intersection (I relied on the spoken turn by turn directions from the MapQuest app for Android, which is my new best friend). After lunch, I helped count raffle tickets before heading out to see if the Green Bay Dollar Tree where I’d had good nail polish luck last year would smile upon me again (it did; amazingly I exercised some self-control and did not buy one of every color they had). Next up was a group dinner just down the street from the hotel, where I fortified myself for the night ahead with good food and adult juice (in this case, Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade, which I’d never seen before). Then it was back to the hotel to decide if I really had the lady balls to wear the costume I’d brought for the Tarts & Vicars party at the Bad Bar. Ever since I got it into my head last fall that dressing up as a Strawberry Tart for this event was the thing I needed to do, I’d been assembling my outfit, starting with an obnoxiously red wig shaped like a berry, complete with stem and seeds. Once I had that on my head, I figured I might as well go all out and put on the rest of the outfit, ending with completely un-sensible red patent heels. When I got down the lobby feeling like the most out of place creature in the universe, I was buoyed by reaction of my fellow tribe members, who immediately got what I going for and appreciated it. I love these people. Scotty kindly acted as my chauffeur to the Bad Bar, where we all proceeded to get up to our usual hijinks, though there were a few key players missing and some of the non-con folks weren’t playing nicely. The vibe was a little off, and one of the not one of us crowd was especially obnoxious, so we ended up heading out earlier than planned for our post-bar meal. I hitched a ride with Deb; in the car I decided it was time to ditch the wig (I was amazed I’d kept it on that long, what with the dancing and such) and put on the mob cap that matched my dress. After partaking of the most excellent diner food, it was time to head back to the hotel, but not before a guy near the cash register asked if he could take my picture (well, first he asked if I’d been in a play).

[Nail look #4: Taupe creme.]

Sunday morning brought closing ceremonies, at which I was surprised and flattered to win several trophies—and to think it all started with a strawberry wig. I celebrated with one of the hotel pub’s buffet in a glass Bloody Marys, after which I intended to go up to my room and get ready for the afterparty. Instead, I ended up taking a nap, which wasn’t so much sloth but self-preservation; I was soooo tired at that point. I woke up in time to have dinner with Deb and Beth at the pub, after which I could no longer put off packing. It was challenge getting everything I’d come with plus everything I’d acquired into my bags, but I managed, barely. I did have to leave behind my acetone and the little aerosol can of hairspray I’d also gotten at the drugstore (I figured if I was going to be a model I needed hairspray), and some of the packaging for a raffle prize, but the rest of the stuff made it in. I didn’t even have to unzip the expanding part of my suitcase, nor was I toting home a bunch of unworn clothes; I brought a lot, but I wore a lot, including all five pairs of shoes and one pair of boots.

Monday morning I had to head to the airport. I wish I’d left more time for the drive, as I passed a gas station that had a dinosaur statue out front with a cheesehead tied to his noggin, and I would have liked to get a picture of that, but you know how anxious I get about making it to my plane on time so I couldn’t stop. The plane home was tiny and packed full of people, which meant I had to give up one of my carryons to be gate checked. Normally that would be okay, but I forgot I had one of my trophies in there and when I got home, it was broken. Sad. (Fortunately I am married to a handy guy so he can no doubt fix it for me.) We were all loaded on the plane and the boarding door was closed, then a maintenance issue came up so we sat and waited and waited. That issue got fixed, but we’d waited so long with the engines running that we didn’t have enough fuel, so we waited some more while that got topped off. Finally were got underway and got to Detroit, but my suitcase didn’t come in with the rest of the bags from the flight. I went waited in line in the luggage office, and the first question the woman behind the counter asked when I got up to her was “did you check the belt?” Really? Did I check the belt? Do I look like an idiot? My giant purple suitcase did eventually appear—probably it was too heavy for just any baggage handler to hoist so they had to wait for the strongest one to come on shift. (It showed right around 50 pounds on the scale at the airport in Green Bay—a bit more if I put it right in the center–but the agent didn’t give me trouble about that.) By the time I got my bag, I might as well have taken the later flight home; maybe that’s what I should plan on next year.