So the Pima County Fair is going on, and we went last night. We don’t usually go, but a friend got us free passes, told us there would be monkeys this year, and why the hell not? I was actually ON the fairgrounds pre-fair last year, because a high school pal o’ mine is a sideshow freak (okay, only sometimes, when he’s eating fire; last year he was just labor) and when he’s in Tucson with our fair, he comes over for dinner. He got me a free preview to the sideshow (which was awesome, because my family of origin, and the man I married, never let me go see the sideshows of the world; I still haven’t seen The Thing despite passing it many times on I-10) when I dropped him off after dinner. The two-headed turtle was pretty cool, though they couldn’t agree on which direction to swim, and I’m sure being a two-headed turtle is exhausting.
Maybe that’s why men are always so tired.
Anyway…as an Easily-Nauseated-American who stopped riding fair rides at about age 10, I go to the fair for two reasons, and two reasons only: Chickens with hairdos, and funnel cake. (Though I can easily substitute mini-doughnuts for funnel cake.)
I’m not even all that into birds, or chickens specifically, but I love me some chickens with hairdos. They’re my favorite. I see them and I am instantly delighted. Almost as delighted as I am whilst eating corn. (Maybe equally so, because my people also have a dance for chickens, done at all our wedding receptions.) I mean, how can you not be? (Click to embiggen.)
Chickens with hairdos are so much better than chickens without. That’s a scientific fact.
Unfortunately, I did not get any funnel cake, or mini-doughnuts for that matter, because I ate my dinner at the fair first, a chicken sandwich (it didn’t have a hairdo; that’s its tough luck), and onion rings the size of my face.
I did not get any funnel cake/doughnuts because, without becoming too disgustingly graphic, within three minutes of my leaving the table, having eaten just 2 onion rings and maybe three bites of the sandwich at best, I felt my dinner rush at a breakneck (or possibly breakwind) pace through my gut, and I was on the hunt for…ahem…a place to sit down for awhile. And when I found such a place, let’s just say I was really very glad for the blaringly loud cumbia music playing outside that made it impossible to hear anything else. After that, I was no longer in the mood for food of any kind. Additional fair food may well have killed me.
But my consolation prize was that there were baby goats. And we got to see the monkey show. And I got a beginner’s leather tooling kit (for half-price!), which is a hobby I’ve wanted to explore for awhile. So I was happy.
Leaving the fair, we hit 2 huge troughs in the road that rattled half of my fillings loose, hit the highway, and halfway home, the car started acting up…running rough, dying whenever we slowed down, generally being a jerk. We held our breaths, Scott kept restarting the car when he had to, and we limped home. That did not, however, stop him from announcing, entirely randomly, after a prolonged silence when each of us sat alone with our musings on what the hell was wrong with the car, “If you ever sing that “Nilla Wafer Top Hat Time” song again, I’m going to punch you in the leg.”
“That was random. I sang that song like 2 days ago.”
“Yeah, and I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Get your own new earworm, then; not my fault….mutter…mutter…threatening to punch me…mutter…mutter.”
“In the LEG!” he said, as if this made the entire scenario far more reasonable.
Where was I? Oh right, limping home. So we get all the way to our own driveway, and the car dies once again, only this time it won’t restart. So I say, “I guess I’ll get out and push it in.” I go to the back of his car, which is just a little Suzuki Aerio hatchback, and lean against it with all my not inconsiderable might, and the car doesn’t budge. I try again, and nothing. Nada. Bupkes.
“Are you stepping on the brake?” I holler in his general direction, since all the car windows are closed, fully expecting a snippy, “Of course not, what kind of idiot do you take me for?” response.
“Oh, sorry!” he says, and suddenly, the car begins to move. I push it up over the driveway apron and let it come to rest before I come around to the driver side window.
“I cannot BELIEVE you were stepping on the brake while I was trying to push the car.”
“Long-time married theatre,” he said.