Fair an annual big deal for youngsters

If you want to wildly excite my English Shepherd, Sousa, all you have to do is pick up her leash. She reacts similarly at the mere utterance of the word “leash” because it means she’ll get to go somewhere. She starts racing around, twirling, and enthusiastically barking.

Same thing happens to my kids (except for the barking) at the mention of the word “fair,” as in carnival kind of fair. I used to spell the word “F-A-I-R” to avoid detection, but that darned school ruined it by teaching spelling as soon as they could hold a pencil.

Their spelling “problem” begot a reading problem. I can no longer write on our calendar words like “fair” or any other place I don’t want my kids to know we plan to go. That stinks because it’s the most convenient way for me to stay organized.

Leaving notes for myself on the fridge is equally self-defeating. Plus, it encourages the mind-deadening daily dialogue of, “How many days left before the fair?” The school folks knew when they taught my kids spelling that it would lead to math practice.

Before long, the kids will start reading the newspaper and realize I get laughs at their expense. Where will I be then? Gee thanks, school, for doing such a good job of educating my kids.

The only way to control the flow of top-secret, twirl-inducing information is to withhold it. And I’ve already got enough stuff stashed in my head. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have that much cranium storage space.

Back to the fair: This year we hit the county fair on a Monday, officially to see my niece show her calf. But it turned out to be dollar ride day. The fair big deal just got bigger.

In my ongoing quest for teachable moments (another bad habit I picked up from the school people), I put my kids in shorts with pockets, dug deep into mine, and gave them $10 apiece for food and rides. This also served as a secondary source of entertainment.

Flushed with the greedy rush of a pocketful of cash, Kate ran to a cotton candy booth and bought herself a large, $5 bag. “You are an idiot,” stated Connor, munching a $3 jumbo slice of pizza. “Now you can go on only five rides.”

Kate pouted and punched him because he was right. The next decision point came when they needed something to wash down the cotton candy and pizza. We ran into Aunt Kathleen, who tipped us off to a merchant’s booth that had cups of water for free. No one was there, so the kids sprang a buck each for drinks elsewhere.

“It’s not fair,” said Kate, trying to wrangle a fry from my more substantial than cotton candy fish-n-chips dinner. “Now I’ve got only four rides.”

Connor tried his best to console her. “I’ve still got six rides!” We purchased tickets. The first ride was the double ferris wheel, which I had to board with them because Kate was too short.

Next came the nastier “Cliff Hanger,” where passengers lie on their stomachs and get whipped around at great speeds. “Are you sure you want to go on this?” I questioned my kids after watching a green-faced teenaged boy exit the ride and the contents of his stomach exit him.

But they insisted and did fine, befriending a boy their age who was also plagued with a parent who disliked rides. Connor rode with him twice on the “Fireball,” which had them going upside down in a continuous circle. Fortunately, my son’s glasses and dinner stayed with him.

I rode again with them on “Pharaoh’s Fury” due to Kate’s shortness. The barfing teen sat in the seat behind us, which further heightened the suspense.

An infusion of cash from Aunt Kara enabled a couple more rides. I made a mental note during bumper cars not to ever let my kids drive the family vehicle. On the high swings, I almost hoped one would break off mid-ride and shoot the kids in the direction of our car. For the tired walk there, away from the fun of the fair, is always the longest.

Boy baby boom poses societal threat

There’s been a lot of talk about the end of the world being near. And it’s already nearly happened multiple times, depending on whom you talk to, or more importantly, to whom you are willing to listen.

I got my most recent world-ending newsflash at a baby shower, of all places! As the 20 women in attendance weren’t the doomsday type, I’m more inclined to believe their decline of civilization predictions than those of the usual crackpots.

“Everyone I know is having a boy,” said the woman in whose honor the shower had been held. Eight days earlier, she had given birth to a six-weeks premature son.

“Me, too,” said her seven-month’s pregnant sister, giving her stomach a knowing pat. The other women murmured in agreement over punch and cake, instantly elevating their observations to fact.

I struggled to find an exception to their overwhelming anecdotal evidence, but the only other pregnancy I’m personally following this season is that of my niece, due to have a boy in November.

So what would a major league lopsided male over female birth rate mean over time to society? Rather than jump to widespread, creepy implications like those forecast in “A Handmaid’s Tale,” let’s speculate on the everyday effects of men coming to vastly outnumber women.

Fifteen bags of potato chips and only one legitimate dish to pass would show up at the next work potluck. No one would bring napkins or plastic silverware. Fat-free, low-fat, and sugar-free products would disappear from grocery stores. Diet beverages would become things of the past.

Not a single fruit or vegetable could be had, with meat, potatoes, dairy, junk food and beer becoming the new, nationally-accepted dietary staples, available at either convenience stores or by delivery so as not to waste valuable time comparison shopping.

The economy would worsen. Entire industries would vanish, from scrapbooking, to cosmetics, to home decor products, to dollar stores and the jewelry sector. Christmas would be cancelled. General medical practices would fold from lack of women to drag in protesting spouses, aging parents, and squirming children.

Other industries would thrive in the absence of women, mainly all things mechanical, but more specifically transportation, sporting goods, firearms, and electronics, with full wall-sized televisions the new norm.

Regular household cleaning would grind to a halt, but sweepers with alarmingly higher horsepower, chrome accessories, and speaker systems would appear on the market. Someone would develop a riding model with a can, bottle and pet waste collection attachment.

They would stop manufacturing toilet seats altogether, but the bowl rims would be wider on the new toilets that would also boast magazine racks and reading lights. Toilet paper would become a subscription service, bundled with monthly cable and satellite dish rates, so no one would run out.

Domestic know-how, such as sewing, would disappear. With no one to sew on buttons, all clothing would feature factory-installed snaps, rivets, and Velcro. Jeans and flannel shirts would become universal uniform.

In this new “seller’s market,” previously un-dateable women would be elevated to a position of calling the shots. The few remaining women would be highly sought after and men would have to work harder at courting and treating them better in order to keep them. On the whole, that might not be such a bad thing.

To guarantee their immortality, men would be forced to lower their artificial standards of feminine beauty in favor of the sturdier, better designed for reproduction women. The pornography industry would be first disrupted and then dismantled by the new crop of real-looking women that no amount of airbrushing could turn into fantasy material.

The estrogen-originated practice of making haircut appointments, which few men have ever understood or observed, would become obsolete. Barbershops would increase in size and become social centers of the new economy, replacing even cell phones and the Internet as the preferred means of communication. Note: This has been covertly happening for some time.

Granted, there’s a good chance the societal pendulum would swing too far in the opposite direction of where it is now, but how interesting things would be. I never realized a baby shower could be so thought-provoking. I can hardly wait for the next!

Throat cramming a necessary activity

One thing I distinctly remember about being a kid was resenting my parents’ continually cramming things down my throat. Ranging from vegetables, to medications, to homework, chores, musical instrument practicing and religion, they seemed always to be forcing something down my gullet.

With more than two decades separating me from my parents’ oppressive rules, my worst nightmares still have me held hostage by liver and beet brandishing bandits who shout, “Eat these, they’re good for you. You’ll need your strength to cut those thistles.”

Was any of it necessary? More importantly, how much of it stuck? Let’s see: I eat broccoli for breakfast, graduated from college, never missed a birth control pill, still perform chores with little complaint, play piano for hire, and faithfully say my prayers.

My kids cannot possibly understand the force of legacy they’re up against. But I firmly grasp the importance of priming the pump of their futures by insisting they act in their best interest today. And if that calls for a little throat cramming, well, may the force be with me.

“In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun . . . . ” I sing, hoping I’ve come close to Julie Andrews’ Mary Poppins, or an updated, spoonful of sugar substitute persona.

Next I impersonate Julie as Maria Von Trapp with raindrops on roses charm. But my kids refuse bright copper kettle polishing and warm woolen mitten wearing. Cream-colored pony poop cleanup also meets with resistance. Not a few of their favorite things.

The moviemakers had to cut the footage of Julie’s characters forcing medication down the throats of her young charges. It would be hard to swallow watching a skirt-clad nun or nanny, however magical or musical, lose her cool, take down and then forcibly straddle a child to administer a healthy dose of cod liver oil.

But moms from Austria, to England, to America are familiar with similar. Motherhood skirmishes are fought not on major battlefields, but in daily power struggles. No matter how well you pick your battles, the war still rages, along with your outrage the mom role forces you into the “this is for your own good” behavior you hated with your own mom.

If it weren’t already hard enough to be cramming things down your kids’ throats, the requirement extends to your pets. I know this from the vet recently prescribing liquid antibiotics and eye drops for our cat’s lingering upper respiratory infection.

I tried to wait it out, hoping for a spontaneous healing like the ones experienced by my car the day before a scheduled tune-up. But unlike my car, there was no radio to turn up to tune out the cat’s wheezing. Plus, her runny, eggs-over-easy-looking eyes were making the rest of us sick.

So in addition to cramming spelling words, manners, breakfast, and vitamins into my kids’ heads each morning, I also get to round up the cat, swaddle her claws in an old towel, and ram an eye dropper full of amoxicillin down her throat, followed by a couple of medicated drops into her eyes.

My pet popularity further increases with our 14-year-old dog, as I chop in half and force-feed her incontinence-correcting pills. Not the optimum way to start a day, that’s for sure. So thank goodness I’m not still doctoring Rosie the rooster.

Back before Rosie departed this world and the company of our family, presumably in the jaws of some predatory animal, I had found myself cutting antibiotic tablets into small pieces and inserting them into raisins to trick him into eating.

I can be pretty persuasive, but Rosie did not suffer pharmaceutical fraud lightly. His eagle eyes expertly spotted and avoided the Trojan horse raisins in each handful, which forced me for better concealment to buy premium, jumbo raisins. You know, the kind too expensive to consider giving my kids as a special treat – even on birthdays.

“Don’t eat the rooster’s raisins,” I’d threaten them out of one side of my mouth, while cooing from the other, “C’mon, Rosie. Eat these for your own good.” Unlike my kids, Rosie actually believed me. Let’s hope it never quite registers with them where that got him.

Devices cannot save us from ourselves

My car doors won’t lock if the keys are still in the ignition. My food processor won’t chop if the lid’s off. My lawnmower won’t engage unless an adult butt is weighting down the seat. Driven by real or imagined lawsuits, manufacturers have found multiple ways to protect us from ourselves.

You’d think these personal safety measures would lead us to healthier lives. However, our collective crack-seeking behavior (tendency to fall through the cracks, as opposed to wanting the drug) causes us to find other ways to endanger ourselves. Still, hundreds of hazards happen absent of specialized equipment or provocation.

Take good old-fashioned, hands-free tongue biting. Just how could we protect ourselves from that sudden, shocking excursion into pain? Short of wearing a mouthpiece (which we’d have to remove in order to eat, when most tongue biting occurs), we’re at the mercy of ourselves.

Personally, I’m not into tongue biting as much as tongue burning. And I don’t rely on fast food restaurants to burn me with their coffee. I manage quite nicely, myself, by taking a giant slurp of scalding liquid from the travel mug I just filled at home. What’s wrong with me? Do I really think it has cooled down significantly just a mile down the road? I don’t think. That’s the problem.

With fast food, cold beverages represent a greater danger than the hot ones. Ever tried one of the new McDonald’s caramel frappes? Colder and more fluid than a shake, they enable taking larger than average sips, resulting in the mind-numbing mother of all ice cream headaches.

If you don’t believe me, make the mistake of trying for yourself. I had to pull my car off the road and use a napkin to mop up my tears. All three times.

But enough about oral accidents. Let’s move on to other body parts. Shouldn’t I know by now to spare my eyes by peeling onions under water? And how many times have I scalded my hands in the same sink by absent-mindedly sticking them under a faucet that just finished running 120-degree water? Self-endangerment at its best.

When it comes to cooking, few of us can resist playing the no-win finger injury game of “How sharp, how hot, or how electrified is it?” Ordinary knives, pots and pans, and other household appliances become weapons of masochism. We know the potential consequences, yet we still court danger.

Taking care of other household business can also be hazardous. I regularly slam my hand in the quick-shutting junk drawer while grabbing a pair of needle-nosed pliers that will ultimately be used to pinch my fingers along with whatever I’m officially pinching.

Penny pinching is no safer. I gave myself a nasty paper cut while clipping coupons, accompanied by whacking my funny bone on the back of the chair when I jerked my hand back in pain.

Recreation poses additional threats. One hot day I was sitting and practicing piano, minding my own business, albeit wearing a pair of shorts. Unbeknownst to me, the sweat on the back of my legs was stealthily adhering them to the bench. When I got up, I peeled off enough skin to qualify for a skin graft, had there been enough donor area left.

In heading toward the bathroom to nurse my flesh wounds, I walked into a doorway. Who put that there?! After using the bathroom, I paid careful attention while zipping back up, mentally thankful I don’t have the additional worry guys have.

The indoor beatings apparently weren’t enough, so I ventured outside. On the engineered safety of my lawn mower, I still managed to thoroughly sunburn myself and to tear the skin off my shoulder via the low-hanging branches I keep vowing I’ll trim. Also whacked my left shin on the mower hitch while refueling. OUCH!!!

I showered and endeavored to crawl back into bed where it was safe. But in doing so, I stubbed my toe on the footboard getting in before accidentally hitting my head on the headboard as I sought the refuge of the pillow.

Thank you, manufacturers, for striving to make our world a safer place. Unfortunately, basic human carelessness and cluelessness continue to conquer.