Sin is Afoot at the Gwinnett County Fair

This week was the Gwinnett County Fair. It is a tradition that goes back to being a little kid in Snellville, and we have rarely missed a year - especially within the last ten years, being that my husband lives by the mantra 'Everything tastes better on a stick'.

So last night, we embarked on 'Fair 2010'. Only us girls went - Dave was at work, and my daddy and Becca's boyfriend Daniel stayed back at my parent's house to grill out and be manly.

Us girls don't play around - the fair opens at 4:00 p.m, and we were there just minutes after.  Now, the actual admission ritual to the fair is very complicated. First, you have to go to the admission booth where you pay for the actual admission. Then you go to the ticket booth to get the ride tickets - each of which are manned by at least two very obese and angry women wedged in a booth the size of a Port-O-Potty. And there is the very real possibility that their size is going to require that they to have to be transported to the next fair grounds while still in said booths - just load 'em up on the truck. It was kind of like looking at a ship in a bottle - you can't figure out how they got in there, and you can't figure out how they are going to get out.

After you pay for your ride tickets, if you decide to pay the set price for unlimited rides (like we did), you go to yet another booth to have your hand stamped. Afterward, you are released into the great and wonderful midway, where you can see wonderful things like a carnie lady plucking her eyebrows. Of course I took a picture.

My mama insisted that the first thing we did was on the Ferris Wheel. "It the only thing I want to go on. We go on the Ferris Wheel and you guys can do whatever you want for the rest of the day. But I have to do the Ferris Wheel." So to the Ferris Wheel we went.

Being that we were there so early, we were the only people on it. This particular Ferris Wheel has little buckets where up to six people can pile in, so we all got to sit together. Becca the Fearless and I are always up for the Ferris Wheel, but as we started going up, my mother started to doubt her decission, deciding that maybe the Ferris Wheel was not in her best interest. The higher up we got, the tighter she grabbed onto the pole in the center of the car.

"Wait - I can see light from the bottom of the car. Is there a crack in the floor? I think there is a crack in the floor. And those little doors aren't secure. Not secure at all. They could flip right open. And we're high, high in the air. Above the trees. Ooooooh, nooooo."

Then Gracie started getting a little nervous as well, and kind of cowered behind Becca. When I told her that we went on the Ferris Wheel last year and she loved it, she yelled, "But it was at NIGHT TIME. Now its DAY TIME - AND I CAN SEE HOW HIGH WE REALLY ARE!!!"

After the Ferris Wheel, we wandered around a little bit, ended up at the livestock show. It was cow day, so there were heifers aplenty and even three 2,000 lb oxen. I love cows - not only are they sweet and pretty, but they are also very delicious. We pet some beautiful milk cows, avoided some serious cow pies, and watched as the show cows were being groomed for presentation. Now - there was some hardcore cow primping going on; they were being bathed, rubbed, having their hides trimmed with fine little clippers, hooves polished - they were Paris Hilton cows, but without the coke in their purses. But not only were the cows being primped, but the show women as well. Only in Georgia can you see a teenage girl using a flat iron on her hair as she stands next to a half dozen cows. Beauty before bovine. Of course, I took a picture.

Then it was ride time. Gracie decided she was going to conquer every single fun house/obstacle course on the midway and got her start in the house of mirrors. We decided to go with her . . . I swear, there is nothing that will suck the self esteem out of you like a Dyson faster than a house of mirrors. It was like fat girl hell. She chose fun house after fun house, until Becca decided we need so go on some real rides.

Now - I'm am wishy-washy on rides. I'm usually too scared to ride them, but if I force myself to go, I will have always blast. There is one ride that has always been at the fair since I was teeny - The Crazy Mouse.

OK - all your Fairians are going to laugh at me, but you can shove it. Its rickety as hell and jerks you around in circles while you go around the track.

None of us wanted to really ride it, but Becca the Fearless was ready to mouse it up regardless of what we thought. And really - how am I going to let my baby sister going on a ride all by herself? She could get kidnapped or molested by a carnie if I wasn't there. So I manned up and got in line with her against my better judgment.

They put us in these little cars - lap bar only - and sent us on our way. Since the cars held four people, we were also in there with a lady and her daughter. I made a mental promise that I wasn't going to curse during the ride because there was a little kid in the car with us, but I abandoned that idea when we went around the first drop and a mighty, "SHIIIIIIIIIIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT!" came flying from my lips. It was a complete involuntary response, so I don't think I don't think I can really be held accountable.

Please note my death grip on the side of the car and my, "Oh yes, I'm having fun" face. Having so much fun.

Then Becca went on the Fireball. On that one, I completely threw her to the wolves - carnie molestation or not. She was on her own.

On to more fun houses we went. Becca the Fearless decided to go on one with G while my mom and I watched (I was still recovering from that damn mouse and watching my sister being hurled through the air on the Fireball). They ran through, going through little tunnels and obstacles, until they came to the end.

The end of this fun house had a rubber slide thing that was almost comparable to a conveyor belt - at the end, you sat in these little chairs and a carnie pulled a lever which dumped you out and onto the slide. Well, Gracie popped right out of her chair on onto the slide, but being that Becca is an adult, she had to give herself a little shove to get going . . .

Then the hilarity began.

All of the sudden we see Gracie coming down, and then Becca appeared . . . though the only thing we saw of Becca was her legs spread eagle in the air and her airborne butts cheeks. And when I say 'airborne', I mean airborne - she was at least a foot from the surface of the slide. When she landed, she landed with a 'thud' and a completely surprised look on her face.

Then I started laughing.

I laughed and laughed. I laughed until I couldn't talk, until I had tears rolling down my cheeks. I LAUGHED.

We rode a few more rides and decided that is was now time for food. Becca and G decided they wanted a Chicken-on-a-Stick, my mom wanted sausage and peppers, and was holding out for a deep fried Twinkie. And as luck would have it, we found a booth selling all three, and also GIANT lemonades. My mom decided that dinner was going to be her treat, so she ordered,  handed Becca and G their Chicken-on-a-Sticks, got her sausage and peppers and pulled out her credit card to pay (my Twinkie was still in the fryer).

"Ma'am, we don't take credit cards."

There was a quick panicked look on her face as she looked back and saw G and Becca nibbling away. My mom handed back her sausage and peppers and told the lady she needed to run to the ATM. The lady said that was fine.

We left Becca and G there as colateral and went to scout out an ATM.

My mom put her card in and when the prompt came up for her PIN number, she said, "Wait - this is a Visa. I don't think I've ever had a PIN number on it." She tried a few more times, but to no avail. I asked if she had her actual ATM card on her and she said no, all she brought with her was her driver's license and her Visa because she didn't want to carry a purse; she left everything else at home. At that point, I told her I would run back to my car and get my ATM card and I would pay.

I stuck my card in the machine, put in my PIN, and requested $20.

**Insufficient Funds**

I checked my balance and it was $19.87 - the deposit I made earlier in the afternoon had not been processed yet, so it was unavailable.

Now Mama gets a really panicked look on her face, and I start laughing. Hard.

We went over to one of the ladies manning the gate (a nice carnie) and explained the situation. She had no real suggestions for us because other than the one ATM, there was no one else that took credit cards period.

We walked away pretty dazed, still wondering just what we were going to do about the now illegal Chicken-on-a-Sticks. Both of us searched our pockets and came up with $4.90 between the two of us. Not even close.

Ma: "Well, we're just going to have to explain the situation to the lady and give her what we have. I gave her back the sausage and peppers so the Chicken-on-a-Sticks are the only thing that we really have to pay for. Thank GOD we didn't get those drinks - I know they cost a fortune."

I'm still laughing. Hard.

We put on our most brave faces and went back to the booth - where we found Becca and G holding almost empty sticks and . . . sipping on a GIANT lemonade. We were officially fucked.

I looked at my mom, she looked at me, and then she turned to Becca and G.

"Get up", my mom whispered.

"What?"

"Get up. I said GET UP."

"What do you mean 'get up'?"

"The chicken lady's back is turned. Get up, get up now and get up quietly, and walk away."

We all looked at my mom - Big Mama Edwards was pulling a Dine-n-Dash. At the fair. With two Chicken-on-a-Sticks.

Becca and G got up and we all briskly started walking, and then running a little. I couldn't run very well, seeing as I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. We ended up in the dark between two rides where no one could see us and we regrouped.


"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

"Well, what are we supposed to do? My card doesn't work, Mandy is broke as usual, and we have $4.80 between all of us."

"Who brings a CREDIT CARD to the country fair?"

"YOU GOT THE LEMONADE!"

"The carnie lady gave it to us while we were waiting. She had already poured it before you left to go to the ATM, so she gave it to us. And called me 'sweetie'. I didn't know you coming back without money!"

I would have loved to have participated in this conversation, but I couldn't talk. I was laughing, howling really, and it took all I had to just be able to breathe, let alone converse. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed. I laughed until I cried. I laughed until there was very real possibility that I was going to wet my pants.

Gracie, on the other hand, was the epitome of morality.

"That was stealing. Its not right to steal, Grammy."

"Well, look at it this way. I'm the one who made you run. So its my fault. You didn't really steal, I did. So you're in the clear, G."

"But you're still an accomplace. Try explaining that one to the judge, Gracie." I coughed out.

"MANDY JEAN - you are NOT making it any better!"

Then we had to plan our escape route. There were cops everywhere, not to mention the lady at the front gate who we explained our situation to and knew we had no money. We had to get rid of the evidence first, so Ma Barker quickely ate the very last of the Chicken-on-a-Sticks.

"What? Just because it's now illegal Chicken-on-a-stick doesn't mean I'm not hungry and its not delicious."


The sticks were then abandoned, but Becca held on to the lemonade because . . . well, illegal Chicken-on-a-Stick can make you thirsty.


The moment was now upon us.


"OK, don't make eye contact with the lady over there - she's the one Mandy and I tried to get to help us. Walk normally but briskly and keep your eyes on the ground. Try not to be noticeable, and  just walk to the car . . .  NOW."


We walked with purpose, but not too much so we looked weird. We were quiet, but not too quiet . . . and then we were outside of the gate AND FREE!


It was a mad dash to the car and we all piled in. After we got buckled (because riding without a seat belt is against the law), we got out of there as fast as we could.


We were kind of quiet for a minute, then I said, "Ma - you do realize that you just pulled a championship Dine-n-Dash?"


"I can't believe we did that. I mean, I've never Dined-n-Dashed. Not even when I was a teenager."


"Its was still WRONG, Grammy."


"Yeah, well - snitches get stitches, G."


I once again was howling, which was kind of bad since I was the one driving.


I had managed to almost make my mom cry on the Ferris Wheel, saw an eyebrow-plucking carnie, watched my sister get mad air on a rubber slide, and committed the crime of thief by taking.


I think this year was a smashing success.

The Nipples of Our Nation's Future

I am fascinated by the news, and by the rich education that our children are getting in this day and age. I would like to bring you attention to the tragic story of Kyle Dubois.

Don't worry - I also have video.

After you've read the story, we'll talk. That's OK- I'll wait.


 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . alright - everyone on board? Lets begin.

OK - slow down for a second, Scooter. You need to try and explain this to Mama so I can understand. So, the epicenter of this story is that you and two of your friends decided that it would be a swell idea to apply an electrical charge to you nipples during a demonstration in your electrical trades class.

Humor me - in this illustrious 'electrical trade class', one is led to believe that you might have at least a mild grasp of the concept that the human body and an electric charge are for the most part not 'BFFs'. But I think I am straying from the subject at hand.

I would like to know when this idea hit you. Or was it a collaborative effort between the three of you? At what point in the normal American school day did it strike you that the best way to get as much as you could out of this class was to involve your nipples and an electrical charge? Are you more of a 'hands on' learner?


And, I bet you were stunned (no pun intended) that when your pal Skippy plugged in the cord, you hit the floor like an anvil. That was a 'shocker', huh? (OK, I meant that pun)

So when they rushed you to the hospital all 'ER' like, who was the one to call your mother? I would have loved to have made that phone call.

"Is this Mrs. Dubois?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is County General Hospital - we have your son here."

"Oh, my GOD - what happened? Is he OK?"

"Ma'am, I really can't tell you at this point, but I will say that it involved his nipples."

OK - so you suffered a heart attack and apparent brain damage. I find it hard to believe that you suffered  a noticeable change in your brain status than before Skippy and The Beav decided to do a little' poor man's' violet wand action on you.

Now, we get to the good part. The lawsuit.

Which one of your parents looked at your crispy nipples and said, "DAMN IT, son! This is your TEACHER'S FAULT! If your teacher had explicitly told you that there are nipples and there are electrical clamps and nary the two shall meet, we wouldn't be in this pickle! Call the lawyers! We'll have his job, we will !" And I'm sure you nodded in agreement from your hospital bed, though that could be just a muscle twitch, seeing as you suffered that brain damage as a result of your teacher's neglect.

I think we have established what an idiot you are, that your parents are complete morons, that that our justice system is fucked to even allow you to bring that crap lawsuit into a courthouse.

But that's not what frosts my fanny.

What puts the bee in my bonnet is the fact that you are 18 years old. We - in the eyes of the law - consider you an adult. This means we give you the privilege to drive a car, to have a credit card, to serve in the armed forces protecting our citizens and Constitution with automatic weapons, to buy a shotgun, and even more disturbing - to vote for our leaders. Yet despite all this, somehow you are not responsible enough to know that plugging yourself into an electrical outlet will result in bad things happening, and therefore, we need to prosecute your teacher . . . but let me show you the way to the ballot box, Mr. Dubois.

Yep - ladies and gentleman  - Kyle 'Sparky Nips' Dubois can pick up his ballot this fall as we vote for who to send to Washington to represent our 'best interests'. Though I believe we might have the upper hand - after Kyle decides to put his pecker in the microwave, he might not be able to walk anymore . . .
 
But there is always the absentee ballot.

So America - take an interest in your child's education. We all can't afford swankaroo private schools; that's just the way it is. But that doesn't mean you have to support their idiocy or mediocrity just because you have two working parents in the household.

If you don't, your cop-out will be our demise; The Snookies and the 'Nip Clip' Dubois of the world are going to be the ones in charge of running the country, and when they are, they'll slap your old ass in 'The Home' where they can take your social security and spend it on spray tans and bad tattoos. And you'll deserve it.

The Great Hibernation

I have a very funny child. Funny 'ha ha', not so much funny looking. She's getting ready to turn ten, though she's going on about 25. G inherited a lot of things from her father (thankfully) both in looks, talent and personality. And the part of Dave's personality she displays the most it his smart-assitude.

Case in point: G's best friend Lindsay is a little taller than her, and has started on her that golden road to puberty already. Just a little, but enough to make G a tad envious. She's already asked me for a bra (since Lindsay has one), to which I reminded her that this was her time to go free in the breeze and she had her whole life to strap the girls in. But one thing I did let her have: deodorant - because Lindsay wears it. I bought her a little travel sized stick of deodorant and let her go to town. I figure if she wants to smell good, have at it.

Yesterday at bedtime, I asked her as she was brushing her teeth, "So G - are you actually wearing that deodorant I bought you?"

"Every day."

"You know you don't stink."

"I know - because I wear deodorant."

As G would say -  touché.

So, being the mom that doesn't want to push her child into adulthood any sooner than I have to, I said, "You know G, you most likely won't have to wear deodorant in the winter. You're not going to really sweat on the playground like in the summer."

She stopped brushing her teeth and looked at me with that smart-ass look her dad always gives me.

"Yeah, Ma - because my pits are going into hibernation. They're packing it in for the winter."

Her delivery was so perfect I almost applauded, even though she was obviously making fun of her dopey mom. We both kind of looked at eat other in silence for a second, and then burst out laughing.

Gd help me when she turns into a teenager.  I don't stand a chance.

Dallo-NEG-ah

I'm not going to do that introduction crap about who I am and why I'm writing. Truth is - I get bored at work and I need to look busy. So I put on my 'serious' face and furl my eyebrows in great concentration as to give the appearance that I'm hard at work, when the real truth is I'm on TMZ.com reading about Paris Hilton hiding drugs in her tootie.

SO -  some of you have had the pleasure of meeting my husband, Dave; maybe at his shop, online, or when he's just generally growled at you. He's a hard guy to forget, given his bald head, head-to-toe tattoos, thick New York accent, and general looks of disdain. He's fantastic and I absolutely adore him.

In addition to being extremely handsome, my husband is a very, very smart man - he's a human calculator, very well read, politically inclined, a basic encyclopedia of punk rock, hardcore, and reggae, and with a credit score of about  1,000. I - on the other hand - am a comparative train wreck; despite my obvious charms, I have no sense of time, can only add if I ask Dave the answer, and have a credit score lower than a piece of toast. He's a hard guy to compete with. And he has this damn quick wit that allows him to burn you at will.

Every Sunday when the weather is nice, I lose my husband to his motorcycle and his riding buddies - but with the weather as nice as it is, you have to let the boys play outside. And as a side note - no, I do NOT ride. I rode Dave's bike once, on my 30th birthday, and I screamed like a little girl. It was NOT happening for me. I don't think we got over 30 mph, and we were going too fast in my book. Never again - though I would like a swanky helmet so I could at least look the part. Plus there is a possibility that I might need the helmet just in general for every day use.

This past Sunday, I lost the husband around 11:00 am. Off he went, leaving me to my marathon of various episodes of 'Snapped'. He returned several hours later, and I asked him how his ride was and where they went.

"We went up to one of the bike shops that was having an anniversary party, then we went up through the mountains and stuff," he said.

"Where in the mountains did you go?", I asked.

"We drove around some super curvy roads, and ended up in Dallo-NEG-ah."

Hmmm . . . as someone who has lived in this state for 31 years and has spent many a childhood vacation in the mountains, I was kind of surprised that I hadn't heard of this place.

"Where did you go?"

"Dallo-NEG-ah."

Then it hit me . . .

"Do you mean Dahlonega, David?"

He got quiet for a second, turned his back to me and said, "Shut up."

Holy shit on a stick - this was IT. THE TIME. The ONE TIME a year that my husband 'the brain' says something stupid and I actually catch him. It was like finding a unicorn. No no, not just a unicorn, but a solid gold unicorn that poops ice cream.

I sat there for a second to marinade in the glory of the moment.

"Really, David? Really? What was the name of the town again? Dallo-NEG-ah? How long have you lived here? 14 years?"

"Shut up -  I said it how its spelled, so I said IT RIGHT."

"I believe the founding fathers of this great state would disagree."

"Whatever. Shut up and eat."

This statement rings with a bit of irony because Dave had made chicken parm dinner - something he has to do because after several instances of raw poultry making it onto our dinner table, I'm no longer allowed to cook chicken without a written consent from the FDA. Insert helmet *here*.  But that's OK - I ate my prohibited chicken parm with the pride of a winning prize fighter.

It was like Christmas morning where you get a stocking full of Halloween candy and a birthday cake all at the same time.

Now while I will most likely beat this moment like a very dead horse for months to come, it will come back to bite me in the ass as soon as I make a grammatical error of my own, unintentionally set dinner on fire, run over something (someone) in my Jeep, leave the gate open and let the dogs go screaming around the neighborhood - but today, just for today, I WON. 


And I would like to think the good people of Dallo-NEG-ah for their support.