From Carnies to Cowboys...

If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you'll be going "You know, we're alright. We are dang near royalty." ~ Jeff Foxworthy

This quote could also apply to most, if not all, county fairs within the United States. Just this morning I was reading an article how a bull - dear god a real live snorting, nostril-flaring nightmare on hooves - got loose in a crowd at a nearby county fair and ended up trampling some innocent people. Luckily a few skilled rodeo riders on horseback successfully lassoed the beast and brought him back to his pen. It makes a gal feel her heart beat a little faster to think of a hero in Wranglers saving the day.
Even this gal, and I hate most things country.
But there's something about a cowboy that makes most women look twice. Maybe it's their mostly quiet nature, or their sexy Stetson. Who knows. Now in all honesty, if a cowboy was standing next to, say, a firefighter, I would have no qualms in shoving the cowboy into a hay bale in order to stand next to the uniform-wearing, hose-bearing eye candy who runs into burning buildings for a living.
Although a man who chases down a bull comes in a very close second.
I didn't always think cowboys were cute. Even when I was younger and went to the county fair at the end of every summer. Back then I was attracted to a whole different type of bad boy. A bad boy who wore t-shirts with the sleeves cut off, had a tooth pick in his mouth, who sported a mullet and a porn stache above his lip. A bad boy whose dental hygiene was questionable at best.
You know who I'm talking about.
That's right.
The 1980s era carnival worker. Also affectionately known as The Carnie.
School used to start in August for us, and the Pierce County Fair was always our last hurrah, our farewell to summer and a chance to maybe even wear some brand new, never worn school clothes. Never mind it was usually hotter than hell and the fairgrounds were filthy at night, I would strut those new white shoes like I was on a catwalk.
I can remember when I was 13 or 14 and I would think those carnies were so cute. I would spend all my babysitting money on the stupid balloon games so I could win another dozen 5 inch square mirrors with Journey and Black Sabbath on them. When I was tired of the mirrors, I would dig into my Lee jeans for more crumpled bills, and try my luck at more games. If I was lucky, I would win several feather roach clips, which I proudly wore in my hair, tucked behind my ears. Nothing screams small town hick like wearing drug paraphernalia as fashion, right?
It didn't matter. If I could catch the (sometimes crossed) eye of a carnie and make him smile at me, then I considered myself the big winner.
One summer when I was about 14, I was waiting outside one of the county fair buildings for my aunt. I was sitting in the grass and people watching. And then, right in front of me, sauntered My Crush. The ultimate Prescott Bad Boy. To this day, I can't think of his name, but I used to spend hours at the arcade staring at him while he fervently played Pac Man and Centipede. I would casually stroll by in my parachute pants and Billy Idol concert t-shirt and hope he caught a whiff of my Love's Baby Soft perfume. Ah, to no avail.
But there he was, in his skinny, pale, high school drop-out flesh, walking toward me.
And sweet Jesus, he actually smiled at me.
It was just then my aunt joined me. She took one look at the googly-eye fest going on between me and Ralph Macchio and told me two words. "Ish. Don't."
I don't know if it was my aunt's wise words of wisdom or just a phase I outgrew, but I stopped chasing down the carnies and the law breakers shortly after that.
Now many years later, it is me that is bringing my 14 year old daughter to the county fair. She has the good sense to avoid the carnies, but there are other boys there that I'm sure are catching her attention.
In fact I saw one this morning when we were decorating her horse stall. He looked like Justin Bieber wearing a cowboy hat. He walked by slowly and looked at my daughter sideways, like he didn't want to be caught. But I saw it. I narrowed my eyes and tried to mentally warn him to Stay Away. I want her to focus her next several days on western riding, some barrell racing and hopefully winning some of her classes.
I certainly don't need a Pre-pubescent John Wayne distracting her.
Back off, Mr. Check Out My Shiny Belt Buckle...
I have purses older than you. And I'm not afraid to swing 'em.