I’ve neglected my blogging responsibilities, and I’ve missed you, dear readers, but not enough to deny myself the many pleasures of the local fair. I affectionately refer to this time of year as “Corn Dog Week”, and many were consumed. But that is not all that one may gain from frequent and regular attendance to this celebration of all things fried and weird.
There are many thank yous I should give to those who make my fair experiences worth-while. Thank you, older ladies in strapless shirts who believe you rock the tight jeans. You make me feel much better about my modest, age-appropriate attire that frees my mind from worry over wardrobe malfunctions or the overt ogling of toothless carnival workers.
Carnival employees, to your many ranks I owe much. Thank you to the game booth attendant who knocked the rust off my ability to do complicated calculations in my head and challenge him on exactly how much I really owed him in order to get my darling son a nasty, cheap angry bird stuffed animal that already had a hole in it and scattered it’s filling all over the backset of my car. I am fully convinced that you must have attended the same economics class Barack Obama did. Why shouldn’t I spend $40 to obtain a $2 cruddy gift? Especially when my odd offspring decide they MUST have the demonic-looking bulldogs that will probably give me nightmares. Thank you to the man manning the spinning boats who chose to visit with me non-stop until my husband appeared from nowhere. I am quite sorry that your wife died, and you came out to spend time with your daughter only to find she was engaged to a man close to your age and had not told you about him. I do hope that you straighten out your relationship with her and that you are able to find shoes that will last more than two weeks on this job. Oh, and I am surprised that you were as pale as me a couple weeks ago, but are now sporting very dark tan, leathery skin. I am certain my daughter appreciated the longer ride she got while you poured out your life’s story. Thank you dart booth barker for promising my children a prize whether they popped a balloon or not. They love the swords. They had grown tired of traditional fighting methods such as kicking, screaming, hair-pulling, hitting, and spitting. It was time we advanced to actual weaponry.
Let us not forget to thank the food vendors. New Deal Firefighters: thank for the carne guisada clogging my arteries. I’m glad you are also paramedics as you served me fried brownies for desert, which were ironically called “paramedic’s delight”. Ronald McDonald House – thank you for the corndogs. All four of them I ate this week. New Deal Band Boosters – Your hamburger was greasy and juicy and all things a fair burger should be. Science Spectrum, thank you for the funnel cakes – my body should make for interesting experimentation as soon as I expire from consuming so much fair food. Those of you who supplied me with pie, fried snickers, curly taters, roasted corn, and so, so much more – thank you for contributing to my gluttony and for creating within me an urge to consume salad, and lots of it.
Livestock exhibitors: thank you for the odors and piles of poop. They were an endless source of conversation for my offspring. Loud conversation. There is nothing like discussing cow poop as you consume a corndog.
Vendors, I appreciate your interest in my welfare. I do believe my life could possibly be enriched by a water balloon on a large rubber band. Or by a water softener machine. Or possibly by the sequined and feather shirt with “One Hot Mama” on it.
And, last but not least, let me thank my fellow fair-goers. I salute you, teenage girls in 6-inch heels trying your best to be jailbait. You, sir, with the 1.5 inch spike through your lip who blurted the expletive in front of my daughter about the bungee ride – I thank you for the opportunity to teach my children yet another word they should not say. To you gang bangers, for the not very well concealed weaponry and drug deals – it’s never too early to teach my children to “Just say no”.
Ah, yes, the fair. Another year is in the books and all but our scales have emerged unscathed. Until next fall, I bid you adieu, but I will miss the corndogs.
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