I don’t. There. I said it. I don’t like the state fair.
When the family packed up to make our annual trek, I tried hiding under the couch but someone spotted me. I tried to beg off for financial reasons. Think of ALL the money we’d save if I didn’t go. Sadly, it was Teacher Day, and I qualified for free admission. It cost exactly the same whether I went or not. I voted “not.” I was outvoted.
I have my reasons for hating the fair.
It’s too hot, it’s too noisy, and it stinks. I do not appreciate shoving my way through crowds of inebriated people and downing dubious desserts (Deep-fried Oreos, anyone? Anyone, but me.). And here’s my most shameful secret — I find the endless displays of quilts and baked goods that represent our mountain heritage kind of boring. I think the ghost of my dearly departed great-grandma just whacked me with her fly-swatter.
But I went to the fair, because I’m a good
martyr sport. We spent a solid 3 hours experiencing the typical offerings; you know, funnel cakes, farm animals, and fetuses. What?! Your fair doesn’t have farm animals? Oh, the fetuses? Must be your first time at the rodeo, sport.***
I was walking around the fair with Squish, innocently
looking for the nearest exit admiring the blue-ribbon winning jar of white half0runners (which, frankly, looked to my untutored eye like every other jar of green beans I’ve seen), when a lady tried to talk him into taking home a plastic fetus. She cheerfully dug a hand into a veritable bowl of creepy plastic baby-blobs and picked one out just for him. I wouldn’t let him have it. Even though the fetus-pusher was rather insistent and Squish himself really wanted one.
I was doing her a favor by not taking a baby.
No, really. I was. He had his eye on a pretty brown one. He thought it was candy. I cannot fathom her reaction if he had bitten its head off.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t play with it like she thought he would. I imagined finding it under the couch six months later, covered in chew-marks and dog hair, or melted in the microwave. He’s four. If it doesn’t have wheels or make noise, it doesn’t hold his attention for long. Come to think of it, how are kids supposed to play with a toy fetus? Stick it in a pocket and pretend they’re kangaroos? I am not sure how much connection Squish would make to the sanctity of life if he’s using his prenatal Chucky doll as payload for his Tonka truck.
There is an up side to this trip. I’m kind of looking forward to next year’s state fair. I can’t wait to see what they’ll try to give us then!
***Actually, at the rodeo you won’t find little plastic embryos. You will, however, find someone who can sell you straws of champion bull-seed, if you know what I mean.
Same concept, I think.