I am taking tickets for a Renaissance fair. Wearing costumes among the guests isn’t mandatory but is highly encouraged. While most wear some form of historical clothing, I’ve also seen people in Star Trek uniforms on time-travelling away missions and groups in Lederhosen because it looked “historical enough.”

A customer runs up to me after being let in.

Customer: “You have to kick that group out! They’re ruining the experience!”

I look over to where he is pointing, expecting to see someone drunk or angry, but instead, I see a family with two young boys running around as mini stormtroopers from “Star Wars”.

I already know where this is going.

Me: “Sir, how are they causing a disruption?”

Customer: “They’re not in period-appropriate attire!”

Me: “Sir, they don’t have to be. Costumes are not mandatory, and we won’t stop anyone from entering unless they’re wearing something offensive.”

Customer: “It’s offensive to me! They should be wearing something historical! If they can’t wear something period-appropriate, then it should at least be from history! None of this futuristic crap!”

Me: “Well, sir, technically, it is historical.”

Customer: “What?!”

Me: “Every Star Wars movie begins with ‘A long time ago…’”

The customer opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it. A customer who has been listening speaks up.

Customer #2: “Bahaha! She’s got you there!”

Customer: “That’s a technicality! They should—”

Customer #2: “Dude! Just let people enjoy things! She can’t kick them out because their kids wanted to wear those costumes!”

Me: “I’m afraid he’s right, sir.”

The customer storms off.

Customer #2: “May the Force be with you!”

It’s the fair season in my county again, after the fair being closed for a season due to the health crisis. I just found out this morning that, back in 2019, I apparently got myself permanently banned from the county fair. Here’s what happened.

The first thing I have to mention is that I have epilepsy. It’s not severe; I can still drive, but certain noises and flashing lights can be triggering, and while I don’t have grand mal seizures, the ones I do have are not fun. So, when I went to the fair (as part of a group), I was very careful to avoid rides that had strobe lights.

There was this ride: the demented tea cups. (No, that’s not what it’s called; that’s just what it is.) I stood in line with my group for not one, not two, but FIVE times that this thing filled up. FIVE times it went around. Not once, not ONCE during any of those five times were there strobe lights or high-pitched sounds. The music was standard music for a fair ride. My group, including me, got on the ride.

Halfway through the ride, they suddenly turned on strobe lights, turned off the music, and blasted a fake siren.

I wasn’t too happy about it. When I got off the ride — which took a moment as I had to wait the worst of it out — I went to talk to the conductor of the ride about what had happened.

Conductor: “It’s because of the time; we switch it over to the new look and sound after dark.

My group had gotten there in full daylight.

Me: “That’s fine, but you need a warning sign about the strobe lights and the siren.”

He laughed it off.

I went looking for the person in charge of the fair. I explained (politely — always politely) what the situation was and requested that they put up a warning sign on the ride. I know I’m not the only person in the county that suffers from epilepsy, and there are at least three people who went to the same clinic I used to for treatment who have grand mal seizures. I can’t swear to it, but I can’t imagine that having a full-body seizure during a ride where you’re being pressed into your seat by G-forces is good for your health.

I was laughed off.

I was PISSED.

I called the county offices and informed them of the issue. And when it looked like they were going to brush it off, I pointed out that the county is legally responsible for any injuries that occur at the fair. The next time I went to work, someone told me they’d seen a sign put up on that ride.

And I found out today, when I went to order tickets, that I’ve been permanently blacklisted.

Over the weekend, I went to a very popular Renaissance Faire. Many people dress up in garb from that time period as well as other fun outfits and costumes. I was dressed as a Wood Elf.

I went into this corset shop to look around. After a few minutes, a young man in typical Ren Faire clothing announced that if anyone needed to be sized for a corset, he would be happy to help.

Three other women and I immediately said:

Us: “Oh, yes! Me, please!”

He had us make a line, and the woman behind me said:

Woman: “Thank God you said something. I can’t tell who works here and who doesn’t!”

We all agreed and had a little laugh together.

My mom is an amateur geologist. She makes polished cabochon rock necklaces to sell at gem fairs. She runs into a lot of interesting potential customers.

Customer #1: “You must have painted these! There’s no way the rocks are colored like that naturally.”

On another occasion:

Mom: “These rocks formed over millions of years.”

Customer #2: “No, they must be fake! The world is only six thousand years old!”

Neither person ended up buying anything.

When I was sixteen, I was working at a burger place at the local fair, and I was working a concert night. My booth was right between the beer garden and concert stands, so we had a lot of concertgoers stop and get food. Mind you, Saturday night is normally super busy, but add a huge concert to that… and it’s awful.

We had chicken and fish strip sandwiches that were pretty good. I had this couple that ordered one of each. The fish came out first.

Customer: “Why isn’t my chicken sandwich coming out?”

Me: “The chicken strips are denser, so they take a little longer to cook. It should only be about a minute left now.”

The man started screaming at me.

Customer: “You stupid, lazy b****! I want my sandwich!”

I started getting anxious and tearing up because I was a sixteen-year-old girl. My manager came over, told me to go take a break in the kitchen, and just let this guy have it.

I couldn’t believe this forty-five-year-old man screamed in my face because I told him chicken took longer to cook.