As you are reading this, I am hurtling down I-75, on my way to Blissfest. And what, you ask, is Blissfest? An orgy? A psychotropic experience? Well, maybe, though probably not for me as The Kid is coming along.
No, Blissfest is a weekend long folk music festival at which one camps. In a tent. With port-a-potties. And they’re too far away for midnight potty needs.
Actually, when I’ve gone in the past (the far past, when I was much more enthusiastic about peeing outdoors) it’s been a wonderful experience. The music is good. The people are friendly…and exceedingly mellow (go figure, snicker) and I came home relaxed, sun kissed and happy. Of course those times *I* wasn’t the one putting up the tent.
So how is this Marie Sexton’s fault?
Well, I recently re-read her most excellent Promises, which reminded me of the equally excellent A to Z, in which the MC’s meet up at…a folk music festival. No sooner did I read them, than I got a “Happy Bliss” email from a friend from my mis-spent youth (HA! I was frighteningly stodgy) and I thought, “I must go! I shall see Jared and Matt, and Zach and (most especially) Angelo!” Because yeah, they’re real people.
So, hopefully I’ll be back Sunday night tanned and relaxed, and sharing pictures and stories. (No anticipatory pics as I’m posting this from the most miraculous Nook)
In the mean time, pray that I don’t end up with poison ivy, or ticks, or – God forbid – earwigs! (Remind me to tell you the earwig story sometime. Did you know their bodies are hinged, and when they scuttle across the ceiling…?)