My sad tale of whoa at the Rodeo

  Still a bit skeptical but nonetheless caught up in the excitement and Americana-feel of the event, I found myself, for the first time in its 64 year history, at the renowned local rodeo. As we entered the gates, I was pleased to see a large variety of food vendors including my friend, Brenda who, with her husband, Tuff, runs Kick-Ass Concessions and was more than happy to dish me up a saddle-size serving of fried dough! 

A penned Brahman bull stood calmly by, patiently willing to pose for pictures. "Are you going to do it?" my husband asked, well-aware of my penchant for pictures. "Nah," I muttered, "$10 per adult seems pretty steep." Sydney laughed. "First of all, you paid $7 for the fried dough that's going to disappear in a cloud of sugar dust in two seconds... " I vehemently interrupted, quickly listing all the virtues of my delicious snack. "Second," Sydney continued, "You have paid much more exorbitant prices to have your picture taken with racing pigs, snakes, sea lions, alligators, and a giraffe."

Our debate was interrupted by the Pledge of Allegiance...recited, then sang, and then followed by the National Anthem. I had powdered sugar all over my heart by the time we were through. Proud veteran that he is, Brad still became a little antsy as the devotion to our country looked like it was going to extend into a Lee Greenwood montage.  "I can't even see the flag," he complained as we said The Pledge to the back of the bleachers. "Use the one for sale in that vendor's tent," I advised. "Where?" Brad squinted. "There...next to the Confederate flag." Sydney spat out her water next to us and Brad had to take his hand off his heart to pound her back.

We navigated the cowboy-hat-wearing crowd  to get to our seats. It takes a bit for me to settle in as my Enochiophobia (I love big, tongue-twister-y words that make it seem like there is a rational scientific and medicinal explanation why I act like a lunatic in situations like these) has my heart racing and my flight response at Code Red. Because I'd (necessarily) dawdled in choosing my snack, we'd lost the chance at a prime, top-of-the-bleachers seat featuring a kinda-comfy backrest and NO ONE BEHIND ME. So I had to deal with 3-D stereo and audio coming at me from 360 degrees. I sat, ramrod-straight, like a prairie dog, mapping out all my exit strategies.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from my work friend Lauren:  Settle down, crazy lady! The bulls are supposed to be the highlight of the show!

My face flamed red. Someone I KNEW saw me acting like a big ol' baby. I whipped my head around, trying to locate her in the audience. As I did, my gaze lighted on the smirking brunette next to me. The rowdy, smirking brunette next to me. The pain in the ass, rowdy, smirking brunette next to me. Lauren's sister. Who I had met ONCE. Over three years ago. And not in the most dignified and mature of venues. Oh no.

Mikayla

"I thought that was you," she laughed. I wiggled uncomfortably on the unforgiving metal bleacher seat. The Amy that Mikayla was encountering now was a far-cry from the Amy she met at an...um...intimate implement affair several years ago. Lauren didn't help with a follow-up, clarifying text:  "She texted me and said, "Who was the funny lady at your sex toy party? I think she's next to me at the rodeo." 

Oh my gosh. Is THAT my identifier? Funny lady at sex toy party? What about:  Amy Mosiman:  Philanthropist? Charitable? Benevolent? Articulate? Bold? Creative? Kind to animals and small children? No...instead I'm funny lady at sex toy party.

Fortunately, Mikayla's attention was quick to wander before she could clue Brad in on the behind-the-scenes summary of our salacious history. I can't completely recall but my husband may have been under the impression that I was at a Tupperware Party that evening. 

I'm not sure if I had more fun watching the rodeo action or watching Mikayla trying to get some action of her own. She somehow lured the 50/50 guy to her seat and coquettishly kept taking his tickets. I kept Lauren updated as I divided my attention from cowboys attempting to lasso calves while Mikayla attempted to ensnare a date. 

Amy:  Who flirts with the 50-50 guy? (3 guesses...they all start with your sister)

Lauren:  Single and lookin' to mingle!

Amy:  When he asked her if she wanted "an arm's length, " I held my breath, fearing she was going to ask if there was another option.

Lauren:  Which do you think would have been the better deal?

Amy:  Oh my.

The Mosimans left after The Flaming Whip. He was magnificent. I thought I was pretty skilled in swinging my school lanyard but I've got NOTHING on this guy. My only suggestion was that he END with the fiery whips which, admittedly, would be pretty tricky to do as they must plunge the arena into total darkness prior to the arrival of The Flaming Whip. We watched as mysterious plumes of dust arose from each set of ropes he used. "Hey...I smell baby powder," Sydney exclaimed. "The Flaming Whip..." remarked her father, "smoothest hands in the West."

We bid adios to Mikayla and began our journey home. As the sun set on my experience at the rodeo, all I could do was hope that this encounter would spur Mikayla to modify her original impression of me. Now, maybe instead of funny lady at sex party, I could be fun-loving, adventurous, and yet still somehow dignified lady at rodeo.

Yeah. You know that's a bunch of bull...

To be fair, we had such a moo-velous time, we almost couldn't rein it in

I adore county fairs...the sights, the sounds, the smells, the taste (Hello, fair fries!). I look forward, every August, with equal parts eager anticipation and loving nostalgia, to Pike Fair Week. Nevertheless, I can say, with my Loyalty Card to the Wyoming County Fair firmly in hand, that the Allegany County Fair is the olde-tyme country-est of all the county fairs. I know this may seem sacrilegious to the bulk of my less-than ten readers but bear with me...please notice, I didn't say "better." Pike has a scenic brook and bridge...Allegany has the train. You will find school-aged kids and teens sleeping in stalls, cuddled up against cows at both fairs. Pike has an old jail, a working forge, and a colonial-era kitchen. But Allegany has the porch.

Ahhh...the porch.

Growing up, my daughters ran safely wild at both fairs...enjoying the animals, exhibits, and attractions. After a bit of wandering, my friend Deb and I would select our favorite fair foods and then settle into the cool shade of the porch to watch the fair go by. If we were lucky, some entertainment would be being featured at the nearby pavilion. 

Those days are long gone. But Brad has heard my descriptions of my fair adventures countless times and this year, made sure that, instead of missing the good ol' days, we would work on making some new memories...living in the present and looking forward to the future rather than thinking wistfully of the past.

Which is how it came to be, that Brad Mosiman found himself planted on a porch in mid-July, listening to The Uke-ladies belt out Beatles hits ("Is that Tom Petty they're playing?" Brad asked incredulously, admiring their courageous gall..) to watch the fair go by. And, oh...Does. It. Go. By. Tattoos and temper tantrums...wanna-be cowboys and the real deal...prepositional gasps from the porch over under-dressed, under-aged, under-supervised teens heading over for a round of "I Got It," and us worrying about what they're gonna "get." "Remember, a lady at the fair always keeps her calves together," I yelled. Wagons rolled by...strollers strolled...and the senior scooters plowed through the crowd. 

We eavesdropped beneath the eaves; Scoring, at one-point, a one-sided cell phone narrative argument between an exasperated teen girl battling with what we assumed was her boyfriend while her supportive brother stood by, nursing his ice cream cone for an admirable length of time (Three Uke-ladies songs worth) while occasionally stroking her arm and back soothingly. "I don't think that's her brother," Brad announced. Our heroine was now gesturing madly and pronouncing the thoughtless villain on the opposite end of the line "dead to her." Her brother (or caring friend) moved out of range to shield his vulnerable frozen treat. The phone call ended, the two characters walked off...holding hands. I gasped again. 

The porch also serves as an excellent vantage point for the runway of fashion do's and (please) don't's but, more importantly, it serves as a handy Lazy Susan featuring the smorgasbord of delectable fair food options available. It was this endless carousel of cuisine that finally drove us off the porch despite the lure of the next featured act at the pavilion:  Clogging.

We time-traveled through the display train, showed our age and revealed how utterly boring we've become by oogling the lawn mowers and fan-girling over a yard-sized excavator that, with the fair special, came with TWO extra buckets. Remember when I used to beg for puppies? We spotted an 1800s general store sled that was, rightfully, on display in a nook protected with a chicken-wire shield. The "Do Not Touch" sign was more like a welcome mat at the exhibit featuring antique adding machines and store registers. 

And then...the barns! I kept our daughters updated in real time by ("Thanks, Mom," they texted back gratefully.) sending pictures of each animal encounter. It was tough to decide who squealed louder...the piglets over their position at their picnic or me over the piglets. We marveled over the cleanliness of the cows (and some of their GIANT heads...wow!) and appreciated such loving devotion to rabbits and guinea pigs that they were provided with hammocks, toys, and exercise equipment. Brad bonded with a goat and I went insane when not one, but two, gentle giants extended their long necks to offer loving arm nibbles. "Why aren't you taking my picture?" I cried ecstatically at my husband as I returned horse hugs, kissing their soft noses and thanking God for this fair.

We'd heard rumor of a rodeo thanks to our porch exposure and could now see the grandstands filling up. I'm "on the fence" about rodeos. I definitely appreciate the skill of humans and animals alike. I love when a working animal can be utilized, humanely, in a purposeful way. But, of course, I've also heard the horror stories. I am also aware that I am an uneducated, under-informed, arrogant, self-righteous zealot that needs to always recognize that there is ALWAYS a bias (Example:  Read about the flank strap from rodeo promotion sites and then animal welfare sites...QUITE the difference), that there will always exist extremes, and that first-hand knowledge is a good place to start in developing an opinion. 

It was fun. Patriotic. Americana. 

There appeared to be more danger to the humans than the bulls.

Watching the bulls quickly kick off their riders and immediately return to the gate was gratifying. "I'm done...I would like to go back to my stall and eat now." I am not so delusional to believe that abuse does not occur in the industry...abuse occurs in ALL industries. But these are expensive animals and the whole world is watching...both of which greatly encourages the best possible treatment. Personally, I still prefer the horses:  I love watching barrel-racing and roping. Before this experience, I strove to "steer" clear of bull-riding and bronc-breakin'. But now I realize that my opinion wasn't utterly fair as it really was, just, my first rodeo.

And finally...the food. Remember Templeton the Rat's wild scavenging run through the fair from Charlotte's Web? Yeah. Only my awareness of a night filled in gastric distress kept me in check...how can one decide? I made an impulsive miscalculation in my lemonade order. Number 1:  Always look for bees...they are your first visual proof that you are at an authentic lemonade stand. Number 2:  If there are pre-filled lemonade drink containers standing ready...run away. I failed. "How do you know?" Brad asked, bewildered. "No gritty sugar residue on the inside of the cup," I explained sadly, sipping my sub-par beverage. I also messed up by holding back in front of my husband as we "self-sugared" our fried dough. We ALL know that, left to her own devices, Amy Mosiman would coat that confection with at least two inches of snow. But, no, I wanted to appear like a rational, reasonable person who exercised moderation and self-control. What an idiot.

But I scored BIG on kettle chips! Disappointed, I left the long line for curly fries after watching the poor vendor slaving away furtively at his hand-held potato cork-screw cutting machine. We wandered and weaved through the crowd when I spotted the sign. We drew close to see the daunting $10 price and I watched Brad's poker face go blank as he asked if this was what I wanted. I knew a responsible, economically-minded person would say "No." While I stared at that ridiculous sign and thought about how, at the grocery store, you can often buy three family-sized bags of chips for the sale price of $3.99 and sometimes at the buy three/get two free...Brad Mosiman stepped up to the counter and made our order. 

We chose...wisely.

"These are incredible," Brad remarked as we made our way through our generous, punch-bowled portion of steaming hot, salty, AMAZING chips. We had returned to the rodeo in time to pray for the injured bull-rider being taken away in an ambulance and to catch the beginning of the team calf roping. The rodeo experience is THAT much better when accompanied by the right snack. Our potato chips disappeared right as the storm appeared...sending people (and animals) scrambling for shelter. We made it safely back to our vehicle and headed home...so happy.

"Did you have fun?" Brad asked, carefully driving us through the storm (Please notice significant metaphor about my life there). Grinning, I told him, "It was incredi-bull!" "So have you changed your mind about rodeos then?" he wondered. I thought about that for a minute. "It's too soon to tell," I answered, "maybe I need to start with something smaller." "What's smaller than a rodeo?" Brad inquired. "A sidewalk-eo!" Brad groaned. "Maybe next year, you should go on your own." I laughed, "That's fair!"