It's not fair! Another blooming onion dream denied!

County fair season has arrived! I love county fairs! Whoops. Allow me to be more specific. I love country county fairs. I've had my "fair" number of shocks and surprises when I've wrongly assumed ALL county fairs are the SAME as in...whoa!..."Where are all the animals?"  A dubiously-blue-ribbon-awarded jar of discolored organic pickles produced from African Horned Cucumbers does NOT a county fair make. Bonzai-shaped trees reflecting the theme of urban-expansionism between the early 1800s and today cannot possible hold a candle to a chain-sawed, RIGHT-IN-FRONT-OF-YOU log transformed into a Stick 'em up raccoon. A bubble tea kiosk is a poor substitute to the freshly-squeezed lemonade stand where underpaid workers deftly transform fruit into liquid form wearing gloves made out of live bees.

But I digress.

"So...do ya wanna go to the fair today?" Brad asked. Uh...duh. Yeah. I was already planning my snack selections as I raced like a clumsy Rottweiler to the van. Fresh-squeezed lemonade was a given. Blooming onion because I was still reeling from my mid-west disappointment derived from the lack of that fair favorite. Fair fries are always a standard fav...soaked in vinegar. I'd tortured my daughter Sydney for years because one of my cloth sneakers sported a ketchup blob stain from her enthusiastic over-adornment of her own fair french fries. Now that I think of it though, my entire wardrobe could serve as a walking scrapbook of  fond fair food flashbacks.

We arrived at the fair and I grabbed my bag to hold all my fair promotional give-aways. "Aren't you going to grab our Pepsi?" Brad asked. I stifled a groan. Oh no. WHY, after thirty years of marriage, did he still not GET it? If there is a beverage in my bag, what impetus would lead me to get a lemonade? And the lemonade serves as the fundamental foundation for all other fair food. An hours-old, lukewarm Pepsi, in this very rare occasion, hinders the burst of fair food flavor. He was sabotaging me before I'd even left the disheveled parking lot (It always reminds me of the bumper floor arena when the electric suddenly cuts out). Bravely, I soldiered on.

Naturally, I raced to the animal exhibits. I squealed louder than the swine when I spotted the piglets, ignoring the more blatant names assigned to my piggy pals such as "Crispy" and "Bacon" in lieu of my hero, "Peter Porker." My main objective was the bunny building. Big bunnies. Baby bunnies. Long-eared. Short-eared. Floppy-eared. I loved them all. One handsome hare and I immediately fell in love with one another. He hopped as close to me as possible; his wiggly nose pushing through the cage. I cooed and complimented, sweet-talked and surrendered. We were obviously destined to be together. Brad, embarrassed by my overt barnyard PDA, wandered off to engage in small talk with the more stable residents of the facility.

After several rather greedy visitors bullied me away from my bunny ("There ARE other rabbits for you to look at," I hissed while nonetheless, reluctantly moving, because, in my heart, I understood, my bunny was MAGNIFICENT. Wow! That was a LOT of commas. Sorry. I tossed it into an online grammar generator but it came back with zero errors. The ruling on the sentence stands, writing of the post continues.), Brad and I moved briskly past the bull balls. "Stop pointing," my husband whispered fiercely, "Every year we go through this...EVERY year." I sobered up pretty quickly when we exited the barn to be immediately confronted by the first of three lemonade stands. I patiently waited for Brad to suggest a refreshing purchase but he blew right by it ("I see what you did there," Brad observed, peering over my shoulder as I smothered giggles while typing this post, "You could have at least started a new paragraph before using that particular verb. Your sense of prose is profane.").

We toured the homespun exhibits where I am abnormally self-reflective and silent. Don't get me wrong, there is a TON of commentary screaming through my mind, but I can't BEGIN to make a crocheted southern belle toilet tissue holder so where would I get off making fun of it? ("Maybe the standard rule is that you have to separate your raunchy allusions by at least TWO paragraphs," Brad suggested. Goodness! I bend over backwards trying to please this guy and he STILL isn't satisfied...Yes, I'm done now."). We looked at zero-turn mowers and Brad was concerned because I was only interested in the ones with roll-over bars. "How fast do you plan on going on this thing?" he asked. No matter..."we" are content with our dueling push mowers because we "enjoy" the exercise.

Than is drinking delicious
free fair water.

We walked past the blooming onion stand where I deliberately dragged my feet. Hmmmm...must be Brad isn't feeling blooming onion-y. Nervous, I went biblical: Do unto others. "Oh look!" I exclaimed joyfully, "Corn-dogs!" I don't like corn-dogs but no matter, this clearly wasn't about me. I just wanted my husband to be happy (and to ask me what I wanted!). "Naw," he shrugged, continuing on. Oh no! We were almost past the fair fries. We'd left the second lemonade stand in the dust already. I hesitated, allowing a pregnant pause to grow between us. This was the conversational chasm into which Brad was supposed to echo my sentiment of doing unto others. "Hey, there's Than," Brad noticed, pointing out our friend. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me over in that direction. AWAY from the fried dough. AWAY from the third and final lemonade stand. I knew better than to look back. I would turn into a pillar of salted fair fries. It was over and the question was answered: Now we know which Mosiman devotes more time to HER bible reading and application. And my penance (or reward...depending on one's perspective)? A 45-minute conversation about the high sugar content of this year's strawberry yield juxtaposed by the increased concern of mold strains possibly brought on by record-breaking precipitation. Thankfully, the higher chromosomal counts resulted in really robust berries. From there, we launched into a lively discussion about re-built motors, trannies, and brakes. Behind me, the rooster-calling contest began. Not actual birds, mind you...kids mimicking birds which is so LESS annoying but hauntingly biblical. Allow me to paraphrase Matthew 26:74. Then Amy began to curse and swear, saying, "Because Brad Mosiman selfishly neglected to buy his beautiful bride fair food, I will no longer know the man." And immediately, the cock crew.