The County Fair started last night, and my sweetheart and I have a big display there for our portable building business. We have a huge cabin with our “office” that I set up last night with computers, printers, and internet access, as well as several barns, sheds, and even a playhouse. Our goal during the Fair is to get our brochures and business cards into as many people’s hands as possible.
It’s a very draining process, as you find yourself going from stranger to stranger, each of them eyeing you suspiciously, saying, “You’re not trying to sell me something, are you?” (Uh yeah, actually. I am.) You repeat the same things over and over with an insipid smile on your face. It’s like one giant cocktail party, without the booze. Needless to say, my anxiety is through the roof, too. As if the crowds, the blinking lights and loud repetitive noises, and the constant overlapping conversations weren’t enough to make me want to crawl under the table, there’s a lady there from one of the other building dealers who seems to pride herself in commenting on what she observes me doing… with disapproval. It’s like she’s channeling my crazy, hyper-critical mother.
There is some great people watching at the Fair, though. Folks parade by us in everything from full-on rodeo cowboy gear to hip-hop paraphernalia to moo moo’s and housecoats to ensembles better suited for the red light district. The snippets of conversation one hears can be very intriguing, too.
Mother: “Don’t you tell me that shoe is tied! Look at that! Who taught you to tie your shoes?”
Son: “Uh… you.”
Little Girl: “Lambies! Lambies! Where are the lambies, mommy? The LAAAAAAAMBIEEEEEEEES!”
Mother: “Oh look! The Beach Boys are playing tomorrow.”
Daughter: “The who?”
Mother: “No, not the Who, the Beach Boys.”
Skinny kid: “I’m gonna have two cotton candies and a corn dog and a funnel cake and another funnel cake…”
Obese kid: “What the %$#@.”
Teenaged Girl: [excitedly] “I am totally going to barf on him on the Hurl-a-Whirl!”
The highlight this weekend promises to be the wiener dog races. I wonder if the winner gets a trophy made from a mustard jar.